


In Vino Veritas

by Davechicken, Penumbris (Davechicken), Penumbris (Shadow_Side), Shadow_Side



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Penumbris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Side/pseuds/Penumbris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Side/pseuds/Shadow_Side
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Neal uncover a wide-ranging wine-forgery plot. Which means they have to go undercover together. Of course, once they're in international waters and beyond, it's no longer a case of jurisdiction and instead a case of survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's still early morning when Neal turns up at Peter's house - he's supposed to get here early, yes, but not _this_ early. It's possible he's more than a little excited about the operation they're about to embark on - though, of course, equally possible that he's also hoping for breakfast. Not that he couldn't have had any before he set out. It's the _principle_ of it.

Smiling brightly to himself, he knocks at the door, and waits. 

Elizabeth answers a few minutes later - obviously she was already downstairs - she's wearing an airy robe over a simple t-shirt and cropped pyjama trousers. "Neal!" she beams, and Satchmo pushes his nose to the side of one of her legs and barks a hello too. "You're early. You must be keen. Come in." She nudges the dog back with her legs, and opens the door to welcome him inside. There's no sign of Peter, but there's his travel bag sitting on the couch and the smell of waffles cooking.

"I've made plenty, have you had anything to eat?" 

Neal smiles rather more as Elizabeth waves him in, giving Satchmo a friendly rub on the head as he steps inside.

"Not yet," he answers, with that unnecessarily hopeful look in his eyes that he realises she's probably far too familiar with by now. "I wanted to set out early. I'm sure Peter's told you how important this operation is."

More than just 'important,' judging by the look in Neal's eyes right now, and the fact that he's practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. 

"Pull up a chair. Orange juice or coffee?" Elizabeth is laughing with good humour. Of course he knew she'd feed him. She always has enough in these days for three. "And yes, he's told me. Wine smuggling right? Master criminals threatening life, limb, the American way?" She starts serving up the first waffles.

"Peter, hon, they'll get cold," she calls up the stairs.

"Almost ready," he calls back down the stairs. "And is he here already?" 

"Coffee, please," Neal answers, settling into his usual place at the table. "And yes, criminals threatening life, limb, the American way, and the veracity of my Merlot: so heinous, even I wouldn't contemplate it."

Again. So soon. And oh, but that had been a _good_ summer. 

"Well, if I ever suspect a bottle is less than authentic, I know who to call." She brings over a mug of coffee, and then two plates, taking the seat next to him.

"You mean you know who to suspect," Peter counters as he comes down the stairs. He's wearing one of his less-travelled shirts, and it looks a little stiff on him. He fidgets with it uncomfortably, and looks at the tie he'd picked as if he is still in agony about the other five he'd considered. "I knew I didn't wear this shirt for a reason. It always seems like a good idea until I realise my ties look ludicrous with it." Satchmo is sitting at the bottom of the stairs waiting for him, and he pads alongside him, escorting him to the table. 

"Peter, you wound me," Neal retorts, brightly, clapping a slightly overdramatic hand to his own chest. "Anyone would think you didn't trust me not to be involved in some kind of nefarious activity at any given moment."

He picks up his coffee, sipping at it. Trying - with questionable success - to look innocent. 

"Not any given moment. But speaking purely statistically..." He decides not to continue that, and instead to drench his waffles in maple syrup. And sit down opposite Neal, starting to eat with gusto.

"Ignore him," Elizabeth advises. "He's just grouchy because he never likes being away for long stretches. Although he should have realised that was part of the job description when he signed up."

"When I signed up, I didn't have you," Peter mumbles around a mouthful of breakfast. It's not very demure. 

"I'm sure you'll have nothing to worry about," Neal tells Elizabeth reassuringly. "I mean, sure, we'll be undercover, but these guys are hardly likely to pose a risk - beyond plying us with rather a lot of wine of dubious origin. And we can easily handle that - right, Peter?"

He puts down his coffee mug and sets to work on his waffles - El makes the best waffles. And they seem especially good today. 

Peter grunts. He does not like wine. Wine is - at best - a glass or two with a meal because beer 'wouldn't go'. 

Elizabeth laughs, and walks over to stand behind her husband, draping arms over his shoulders and kissing his cheek. "You know, if we could swap jobs for a week or two, now would be the time to do it." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "What do you think, Neal? Would I fit in?" She's tugging at Peter's tie, threatening to remove it. 

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Neal tells her, looking ridiculously amused and more than a little mischievous himself, whilst keeping his tone completely deadpan. "Between us, we could take down major criminals. Save the free world." Pause. Sip of coffee. "We'd be unstoppable." 

Peter laughs and bats at his wife's hands. "You think I'd leave you two alone? One: I'm not having you in danger and - even worse - two: can you imagine me picking out the best tablecloths and canapes? Hmmm, I think I'd be eaten alive by your clients before you'd be run to ground by master criminals."

Elizabeth giggles, tightens his tie and straightens it. Gives him another hug, and then grabs for the empty plates, moving them to the dishwasher before Peter can complain. "On second thoughts, you're right. And you wouldn't look good in any of my skirt suits." 

"I beg to differ," Neal says, sitting back with his coffee in hand again. "I'm sure we could find something that would work. Though I have to agree on the canapes. Maybe you should stick to the day job..."

This is far too much fun.

Peter flings a napkin at Neal, his eyes stern but in a way that isn't angry. "You're getting too excited, Neal. And you really shouldn't encourage him, El."

Elizabeth nods, but she hasn't stopped smiling. "I know. But you are the one who's leaving me for - how long? A fortnight? I do need something to think about while you're gone, other than horrible nightmares of you forced to tread grapes in a dungeon."

"Fortnight tops. Honestly. I'm hoping to get out well before then." 

"Though we might need the full two weeks," Neal points out. "You never know. Sometimes these things end up being more in-depth than first expected. And we really do want to do a thorough job."

He downs the last of his coffee, smoothly setting the cup on the tabletop. "It's an important mission, after all. Otherwise the Bureau wouldn't be investing so much in it." 

Peter sighs again. This is why he dreads Neal coming for breakfast. One of them is bad enough. Two make his head spin. "Of course, Neal. You just keep thinking that." 

"Joking aside - you take care of Peter for me," Elizabeth warns Neal. "I don't have to remind you to do the same," she beams at her husband. "I want the two of you back in one piece." 

"Count on it," Neal tells her, in a suddenly sincere tone. Because, yes - joking aside - they matter too much to him, and he'll do everything he can to make sure that they'll all be having breakfast like this again in a fortnight's time. 

"Come on then. We should go for our final briefing before we cut your anklet again." Peter gets up, looking reluctant. 

Elizabeth wraps her arms around him, pulling him down for a slow, warm, loving kiss. She doesn't care that Neal is there: if he didn't want to watch a goodbye, he should have waited on the sidewalk. Like he'd been told he should. But really, they both forget he's there when their lips meet. It's nice, because normally Peter would remain at least a little starched if she did this in front of anyone else.

Eventually she lets her hands break around his neck, brush over his throat, down his chest, as she sinks down onto her heels again. "Miss you, honey."

"Miss you too," Peter tells her, his hands still on her waist. Wishing all the love in his eyes could keep him here, right now. 

Neal doesn't stare - he's far too well-mannered for that - but it's hard to keep his eyes from being drawn all the same. At least for a moment. Then a strange kind of awkwardness overtakes and he gets up - betraying not a flicker of it in his eyes - pacing a little closer to the door as if making it clear he's giving them space. Without actually leaving.

He thinks about the wine again. It isn't as distracting as it was before. 

"You better go," she tells them. "Your taxi will be here any minute."

"I know," Peter replies, but he doesn't let her go at first. Then he does. Reluctantly. Maybe he's remembered Neal is here. He kneels down and calls Satchmo over, who bounds up to him good-naturedly. He strokes his dog's head, and ruffles at his ears. "And you look after El for me."

"You'd think you were going away for months," Elizabeth says. "Go on. It's okay. Go have fun with Neal."

He gets up. Grabs his bag. "Two weeks," he repeats. 

"Two weeks," Neal echoes, brighter again. "I promise to bring him back in one piece."

There's the sound of a car horn from the road outside. "Peter. Taxi." Trying to hurry him without overstepping. Or sounding too excited again. 

Bag: check. Reduced wallet: check. He's sure he's got everything else, so he slings the bag over his shoulder, and blows one more kiss at El. She's shooing him out the door, holding Satchmo back.

"Send me a postcard," she asks.

"I'll send three."

And then he's getting in the taxi, and staring back at the house like he's never coming back.

***

An uneventful taxi ride later, and it isn't long before Neal is following Peter into the FBI offices, heading for their briefing. It's a fairly major undercover operation, so naturally Hughes wanted them in to go over it all once more before everything is set in motion.

Neal doesn't mind too much. FBI briefings can get a little... stilted at times, but he's too caught up in thoughts of the operation itself to care. He flashes one or two people a smile as they head up to the top offices - and it certainly doesn't take an FBI agent to tell that he's already enjoying himself too much. 

"Remember this is still work," Peter tells him, when they get to Hughes' office. Standing just in the way, turning to glance at him over his shoulder. "And technically, still a sentence. You aren't supposed to be going on holiday and having fun... even if I know you will." 

"Don't worry, Peter, I won't forget," Neal says, though there's too much of a glint in his eyes for this to be the whole truth. "Deadly serious FBI work. Got it."

Though of course this doesn't mean he won't apply himself all the same. He can do two things at once, after all.

Peter sighs, long-sufferingly, then opens the door and waves Neal in ahead of him.

"Burke, Caffrey," Hughes greets them, then nods at the chairs sat waiting for them. 

"Sir," Peter replies in kind, then takes the seat on the right. 

"Morning," Neal says, taking his own seat, expression settling into that careful, level look he tries to keep in place around people with enough importance to do dangerous things like overrule Peter. People a little less susceptible to his particular charms.

Besides. You never show your hand unless you have to. And even then, you rarely show the real one.

"I know you both know this operation inside and out, but considering the risks involved, and the complications, I wanted to go over it with you one last time. First: you know your aliases?" Hughes asks. 

"Absolutely," Neal replies, before Peter can get a word in edgeways. "I've even taken the liberty of making sure that Neal Young's name will have cropped up here and there over the last couple of weeks. Just to make sure we sound more believable when they start looking. Because they will."

Peter tries not to roll his eyes. "And Peter Storey, of course, is completely off the radar."

"Good. Caffrey, you're going off-anklet for this, but only because Agent Burke has personally vouched for you and will be with you all the time. And I mean all the time. You so much as go to the bathroom, he's going with you. I don't care how you play that, but that's the deal and if Burke feels that you're risking anything, he is authorised to arrest you and cancel the sting right then and there. Understood?" 

"Understood." Serious face and everything. "I'm committed to this operation," Neal promises. And he is. Really.

Peter is trying to work out how he can come out of this with his job and his sanity, and he's still not sure that he can do either.

"Seconded," he offers, trying not to sound strained.

"Now Neal Young is in the market to buy and sell some wine. As you know, we've got a lead on who is selling the wine in New York, but we don't think that's where it's coming in. Someone is producing, bottling, and selling this over and above the real vineyard's production line. The replicas are high enough quality to pass any easy tests."

"And it's going to be prohibitively expensive to run those tests. Meanwhile the evaded import tax, plus the label's up-market price, makes it an easy profit... it's smart," Peter grudgingly agrees. "If somewhat bizarre." 

"It's very smart," Neal chips in. "These guys are taking entry-level wine and turning it over for five, six times the price, per bottle. At least. It would be abhorrent if it wasn't so brilliant. Or so I'm told."

That innocent look comes back, hiding all the thoughts beneath. Thoughts, memories. Same difference. Though this is on a much larger scale and he's having to work hard to pretend he isn't impressed.

"Stop getting ideas," Peter warns him. 

"Neal Young and his associate are looking to start a franchise of this 'label'. Find out where it's coming in, where it's coming from, and if necessary we'll co-operate with Interpol once we've got more leads. At the minute, we're the first ones to notice this. The cross-state selling makes it very firmly our jurisdiction, but you know as well as I do if it goes out of the States..." Hughes doesn't need to finish this. 

"...they're beyond your reach. Our reach." Neal _does_ need to finish this. Partly for effect and partly to remind himself of the stakes in all this. Much as it all sounds far too much fun, he hasn't forgotten the risk involved. Oh no.

"And I'm sure we'll end up with lots of kudos with Interpol for bringing this to their attention," Peter says. Ever the official party line. Officially.

"You are only there to gather evidence and leads. If it's possible to bring the ring down, of course, we'll do that. But you're not to go gung-ho out of jurisdiction and into trouble. I mean that," Hughes says, but he says it to both of them. "You're only on the job because of your... interests in this field. Against my better judgement."

"Neal will pull this off better than anyone else could, Sir, we'll make sure your faith in us pays off." Peter is very, very quick to come to Neal's defence.

"You see that you do. Now. Do you have any questions?" 

Neal's eyes flash to Peter for a second, his expression level but hiding a sudden flash of warmth. He's grateful for the other man's support. He knows how much easier it would be for Peter to just toe the party line and actively distrust him. Knows that Peter is taking a risk every time he jumps to his CI's defence.

And he appreciates it. A lot. In a way he never quite expected.

He shakes his head, keeping his questions to himself for now. Better to ask Peter later, if he needs to. And besides, he wants to get going.

"No, Sir," Peter answers for them both.

"Then good luck. Your IDs are ready with Agent Barrigan. See you in two weeks."

Immediately, Peter stands. He's already trying to lead Neal out: the less time Neal spends in his boss' presence the better. 

Neal takes the hint and - this time - goes along with it. He has nothing else to add for the moment (out loud, at least) and he knows he's not Hughes' favourite person in the world.

"Tell me you're not looking forward to this," he challenges Peter, when they're out of Hughes' earshot.

"A fortnight handcuffed to you, with you crowing about nice wine, not a beer in sight, and no El? Hmm, how could I possibly turn that down?" But he's amused.

It is somewhat infectious to be around Neal in this state, if he won't ever, ever admit that to anyone. 

"I guess at least this is your revenge for the filing and coffee trips," is as far as he will go. 

"And I wasn't even out for revenge. Amazing how that happens." Neal claps Peter on the shoulder in the way that he's never quite certain he can get away with. "Relax. I'm sure everything will work out according to plan and you'll be back home before you know it."

"And you're not sneaking home any bottles, either, are you?" Peter asks, even as he lets Neal steer him towards Diana. 

"Now, Peter, I wouldn't do that. It's Bureau evidence." Neal manages his very best butter-wouldn't-melt look. "Besides, I'm sure we'll get plenty of opportunities to indulge during the operation."

Not bouncing with excitement. Not. (Much).

*** 

And that excitement hasn't dimmed when they finally arrive at a rather exclusive event being held in a more attractive part of the Manhattan waterfront. Wide, ice-white double doors are opened for them by a pair of overly tall men in suits, who gesture Neal and Peter into the space beyond.

It's a very elegant loft conversion; broad white beams overhead and notably abstract art on the walls. Under different circumstances, Neal knows his eye would have been drawn to some of it, but today, it's the event itself which holds his focus. There are several tables set with canapes and several more with glasses, and behind them white-suited sommeliers offering samples to the guests and clients.

"Oh, this is going to be good," Neal mutters - so only Peter can hear - seconds before he notices another man moving in their direction.

Canapes. Why can't it ever be little sausages on sticks, at least?" Peter grumbles. But he also catches the movement, and he steps in that little bit closer to Neal.

The man who walks over to them can't be any taller than five seven. He's wearing a pale shirt under a cream suit, and he's flanked by a woman who must only be four foot nine before the heels. He's no older than forty, but his hair is quite clearly dyed far too black. He smiles at them - and the sommelier reaches them a moment after.

"You're new," he says, and waits for them to take a drink. 

"Only from certain angles," Neal replies, taking a glass and giving the contents a thoughtful swirl, watching the deep ruby-red dance against the rather imposing white of the room. "I don't believe we've been introduced. Neal Young. And--" - a nod, and a gesture - "--my associate, Peter Storey."

He smiles, lifting the glass to catch the aroma. It's a little stronger than he expected: people so often go for a reliable French or two at events like these, but this one is obviously New World. The picture of experienced, he swirls it again. Takes a sip. Thoughtful.

"Surprisingly woody, but with a lovely edge of plum. Cabernet, yes?"

The short man doesn't say anything, his eyes don't move, but the sommelier answers for him.

"An '03. Sir has a discerning palate."

"Personally, I prefer my grapes a little... off the highstreet," says the man. He looks at the colours, and picks a glass up.

He nods to the tray for Neal to do the same. The woman on his arm smiles charmingly at them both.

Peter decides to pre-empt Neal, and picks up two of the same, which were mixed in enough with the Cabernet to make it difficult but not impossible. He offers one to Neal, then echoes his movements. It's not that he's ignorant of wine, it's just that he much, much prefers beer.

It's a test, certainly, and Neal can't help being pleased that Peter has immediately picked up on it. Whatever is mixed in amongst the glasses of Cabernet will surely be something a little less mainstream; exactly how much remains to be seen.

"Thank you," he says, taking the glass and, once again, giving it a swirl. This one is a little more richly-coloured: subtle, yes, but there if you're observant enough. And the aroma is definitely something; rich and evocative and with a clear hint of olive.

He takes a sip, his suspicions proven at once. "Ah, a little more adventurous... Tuscan, yes? Delightfully complex and warm." 

Which is when Peter decides if he's in this, he better be in it all the way. He takes rather longer over sniffing it, partly because he is actually surprised by the smell. He knows enough about wine to appreciate and describe, even if he can't locate and name. This one he's never met before, he knows, because he'd remember.

He sips it, and his face is the picture of pleasant surprise. "Ciabatta," he pronounces. "Served with olive oil. It's right there..." And for once he isn't guessing.

"You know your way around a bottle," the man says, approvingly, still nursing his glass. "Gregory Lanchester. And this lovely thing is Denise." 

Denise smiles at them, but she picks up a glass of the Cabernet when she's offered the tray.

"Ah, Mr Lanchester, I hoped we'd get a chance to meet you," Neal says. "Word has it you're in the market for some like-minded business associates - because, by chance, so are we. I understand you have a fairly sizeable operation in place." 

"The - pardon the pun - grapevine has always been good to me," he agrees. "Tell me, Misters Young and..."

"Storey," Peter supplies at once.

"Storey," Gregory says, tilting his glass to Peter in apology. "What kind of association are you in the market for?"

"Brokerage, ideally," Neal replies. "As you yourself have pointed out, I know my way around a bottle - many different bottles, in fact. I have a fair amount of experience in sales - wholesale and specialist - and I'm looking to broaden my horizons."

He glances at his current glass of wine again, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Take this for example: European, but not French, which means your average US client may not be so familiar with it. You want them to invest in a good-size stock, you need to convince them. Educate them, perhaps." 

Gregory nods, seeming to approve of Neal's observation. "A good - unusual - bottle will sell well, to the right buyer, but it's weighing that against the risk that no one will take the chance at all. I'm sure you know that all too well."

"Mr. Young likes a... broad variety of wines. For our clients. Would that be something we could expect from you?" Peter asks. He's still nursing the wine. It is nice, but not nice enough for the price he's sure it commands.

"We are... good at sourcing from a very broad number of labels. In fact, we sometimes can acquire to order. That's part of what I'm looking into expanding, with my business. I need someone who... is good at educating the market."

Neal spreads his arms a little; a gracious gesture. "Then I'm your man. And believe me, not only can I educate the market and excite your clients, but I can get other people interested at the same time. People who won't be able to resist making a few investments of their own when they realise what opportunities are out there."

He smiles. "Does that sound like an arrangement which would interest you?"

Another sip of the wine. It's too good to resist. 

"It does. I think if you want to really talk business, you should come visit my centre of operations. Then you can see my stock first-hand, and maybe we can crunch some numbers? Get an idea how many cases you could sell for us?" 

"I'd like that. Then perhaps I can share a few of my tips for predicting the market - ways to work out precisely which grapes and labels are in vogue. It's like selling stock, Mr Lanchester. If you know what to move and when... you can vastly improve your profits."

Smile. Sip. So very easy.

Gregory does look a little surprised by this, but it's good surprised. "If you could do that, then I'm sure you'd find the deals I can get from my suppliers to be... very, very competitive." He pulls out a business card, leans forwards, and slides it into Neal's breast pocket. Pats it. "I'll be in touch. Keep your calendar free for me."

Then he wraps his arm around Denise's waist. "I'll see you both soon, but I'm afraid for the minute, I need to mingle with some current partners."

Neal's eyes flick down to Gregory's hand as he makes contact, but back up again almost immediately. Giving nothing away.

"I'll be waiting," he answers, then lightly tilts his glass in the other man's direction. "Enjoy your afternoon." 

Gregory moves on to mingle with other people, and once he's out of earshot, Peter turns his back on him, and puts his hand on Neal's elbow to do the same.

"That went well, I thought. Just pushy enough without being too blatant." He reaches for the business card. "And he seems to like you. A lot."

"I have that effect on people," Neal points out, looking far too pleased with himself, his eyes doing that same down-then-up when Peter takes the card from his pocket. "Besides, we need him to like me. And I bet he doesn't wait long to call... not given how drawn he looked by my offer." 

"Considering he'll have to change 'suppliers' regularly enough not to draw suspicion, and fly under the radar, how could he not? I think we should make sure we look polite enough speaking to a few more people, then call it a night." 

"Sounds like a plan," Neal agrees, in a tone of voice that implies it's the collection of expensive wines he's more interested in. But the two can be combined, of course.

Well. He can enjoy himself once in a while, right?

***

Once the evening comes to a close, there's nothing left to do but return to their hotel: it has to be a hotel, because it's more than likely Gregory Lanchester will have people following them. Checking them out, before he chooses to re-establish contact. And that means every inch of their aliases has to be in place and up front.

Hence the hotel - which is far more expensive than the Bureau would normally allow - in order to fit the cover.

In Neal's opinion - one he naturally chooses to voice as soon as they're alone - it still leaves something to be desired. But at least it doesn't also leave him concerned for his life.

He stands at the window, turning Gregory's business card over and over in his hands, apparently deep in thought. 

Peter is on the phone to El. There's no bugs in the room and his phone is not tapped, so he calls her the first opportunity he can.

"...and there was something on my pillow that looked just like the weird soaps in the wrapping paper, and the carpet should be used to make Siberian winter coats. There's a minibar and the drinks in it - not one of them is something I'd drink. It's like my kind of hell but like you and Neal had a weird baby and it's a hotel room..."

Neal glances over his shoulder at that - it's not like he can avoid listening in - half rolling his eyes and half grinning at that rather bizarre image.

"Say hi from me," he mouths, with his best endearing look. 

Peter nods and holds up his hand to say he will. Elizabeth is saying something which makes him grin goofily. Then blush. Just a little. "I know, hon. I love you too. And so does Neal apparently." 

There's another little flurry, then he snorts. "Catch," he says, and tosses the handset over at Neal, expecting him to catch it.

This takes Neal slightly by surprise but he nevertheless manages to catch the phone with ease, flashing Peter a look as he lifts the phone to his ear.

"Elizabeth, hi," he says. Listens. Laughs, after a moment. "Oh, I'm sure he will." Listens again. "Of course we're not having too much fun. If anything, I don't think Peter's having that much fun at all... not yet, anyway." Then he grins again, looking down for a moment. "Sure thing. Here you go. You take care." 

And he tosses the phone back to Peter, giving him the same lack of warning.

"Are you conspiring again? Elizabeth Burke, I swear, sometimes I think you only married me to remain above suspicion, even if the full police checks came back clean..." He sighs, drags his fingers over the bed. He doesn't even realise he's doing it. "Yeah. I do. Two weeks. I'll call if I can."

Then he ends the call, and pockets the phone.

"I guess we're calling it an early night, huh?"

"Unless you want to find out if the Bureau tab covers the minibar..." Neal says, with a devilish look.

He steps away from the window, sitting on his own bed, glancing at the card in his hand again. "I'm surprised Lanchester hasn't called already. He must enjoy making people wait." 

Peter flops down onto his bed. He picked as soon as they got in the room. He always has to sleep on the same side of his bed, so he picks the single one that would be that side. 

"You had plenty of wine at the tasting session," he tells him, but with no heat. "We could see what game is on. Maybe Lanchester didn't like you quite as much as we thought?"

"Oh, he liked me," Neal says. "He's just playing it slow. Surely you know the type..?"

These things are a seduction, after all. A rather twisted seduction, but a seduction nonetheless.

"Maybe we should just go to sleep," he suggests, trying to get Peter's mind off football before it's too late. "If nothing else, it--" 

And then he's interrupted by the phone ringing: not either of their cells, but the landline in the room. He glances at Peter, and then reaches for the handset.

"Hello?"

"Ah, Mr Young, I hope I wasn't disturbing anything?" It's Lanchester.

Peter arches his brows in a 'well?' gesture.

"It's him," Neal mouths, before turning his attention immediately back to the phone. "Not at all," he says, voice very level. "I take it you've had a chance to think about my offer?" 

"I have. You come highly recommended by several very connected buyers. A small but select portfolio, it seems. I'll be in Miami tomorrow. Fly in, I'll have someone meet you and make all the arrangements. Just buy a ticket."

And he hangs up.

Neal gives the phone a rather arch look when Lanchester hangs up - as if the man no longer on the other end could somehow see - and then puts the handset down. 

Then he turns his attention to Peter. "Well, that was fast. I hope you packed tropical..." 

"I'm not gonna like this, am I?" Peter grouses. "Break it to me."

"Lanchester wants us." His face breaks into a grin. "We're going to Miami." 

"Miami, huh? Explains why our port officials didn't know anything about his shipments. I'll make a few calls. Did he give us a meet?"

"He just said to buy a plane ticket and he'd have someone meet us there. Said he'd see to the arrangements... which likely means he's going to try to impress us." 

And watch our every move. But that goes without saying.

"Alright. You have the remote, I'll let the office know, and get us first class tickets to Miami. First flight we can get. Then we should get what's probably the last free night's sleep we'll get in a while." He pulls out his phone again.

"Sounds like a plan," Neal agrees. He kicks off his shoes (then pushes them neatly together) before flopping back on the bed, arm under his head. 

This is all going so well.

***

It's another bright, sunny day in Miami as Neal and Peter head through into the busy arrivals hall at Miami International Airport after a thankfully uneventful flight.

Neal glances around, clocking what he's looking for almost at once: a tall, dark-suited man holding a sign that reads "Young and Storey."

Peter sees it only a moment after, and walks towards it. He's wearing chinos and a short-sleeved blue polo. "Reckon we should pick up our bags, or will they search them and bring them?" he asks Neal, sotto voce.

"I'd imagine they already have them," Neal answers, just as quietly. "They'll want us out of here and into somewhere more controllable as soon as possible. Just in case." 

"I could get used to that part... if nothing else." Then he walks that little bit closer. It isn't hard to look like he is scanning for threats, or ready to push Neal to the ground and take a hit for him. It's pretty close to his normal behaviour. He just lets it be more blatant.

Neal can tell, and he's more grateful for it than he might have expected. Much as he anticipates this operation going off without a hitch, there's always that flicker of awareness that things could go sour. 

There's not a trace of that concern in his eyes, though: nothing but confidence and certainty, and an eagerness to get down to business. And that part is entirely genuine.

"You must be our ride," he says to the dark-suited man, as they approach. Then he gestures to himself and Peter. "Young and Storey. I believe Mr Lanchester is expecting us."

The driver nods. "I’m Dave, one of Mr Lanchester’s people. Your bags are in the car. I'll take you to your hotel. You're meeting him for dinner tonight - I will pick you up at seven."

"Excellent," Neal answers. "Lead the way."

They set off out of the terminal, and are soon stepping through broad automatic doors into the pick-up bay beyond: a wall of heat and humidity hitting all at once. 

Their chauffeur takes them to a very smart black limousine. It's sleek and classic, not an over-sized stretch SUV. Their bags must already be inside, because he opens the door to the back and they are nowhere to be seen.

"Please, use all the facilities you like," he says. "The hotel is thirty minutes away, when there's no traffic. I'm on the intercom if you need anything." 

"Where are we staying?" Peter asks, as he waves Neal to enter first.

"The Hyperion," their chauffeur replies. "Reservations have been made in your names, and Mr Lanchester has opened a generous tab."

"Sounds promising," Neal remarks, flashing a smile as he gets into the car, sliding across to make room for Peter. 

Smooth leather seats. Air conditioning. And no shady figures pointing guns.

Perfect.

"Been there without me?" Peter asks as he gets in after Neal, while Dave shuts the door on them. "Let me guess when..." Although he is fairly sure Neal wouldn't admit to that rumoured job, either.

"Well of course I can't confirm any insinuations you may have heard," Neal says, smoothly, "but I do have it on good authority that the Hyperion is quite something." He leans in a little closer, adding, in a conspiratorial whisper, "I think you'll like it."

"Sports on large screens? Real beer? Or something else?" He decides to rummage through the little fridge and compartments... and finds, amongst other things, a little bag of pretzels. "Huh, what happened to just nuts?"

"All that and more," Neal replies. "They have a three-star restaurant, extensive recreational facilities, and the views are absolutely to die for. Or so I'm told."

He sits back, watching for a moment, raising his eyebrows at the question. "Variety in all things," he remarks. They're going to one of the best hotels in the city, if not the entire state. Why is Peter not more excited?

"Views aren't everything," is all Peter will reply. But he does seem to be enjoying the pretzels. He offers Neal one. 

"Pool?" he does ask, after a moment's thought. "Basketball court?"

"Three pools. And I believe they do have a basketball court as well. Relax, Peter: your every whim will be taken care of. It'll be like you aren't even working."

He takes a pretzel, eating it with a slightly thoughtful expression, watching the city whip past beyond the tinted windows.

Not every need. He'd rather El was here too. Then maybe he'd enjoy it, but he smiles as best he can anyway. And because Neal is looking out the window, he does too. Maybe his partner needs a bit of a break from him. He knows this is going to test their working relationship. It's one thing being in an office together, another being in the van for hours... but two weeks? He's sure they'll both be tearing their hair out by the end of it.

And he's glad it's him here. He's not sure if anyone else would have the same patience for Neal's... quirks that he does.

"What does it have for you?"

"Can't a man simply enjoy the finer things in life?" Neal asks, as if he doesn't do just that on a regular basis anyway. Though of course this isn't the whole truth - it isn't just two weeks in a fancy hotel, selling - and sampling - fine wines. It's also two weeks off-anklet, and much as he knows this means Peter will be sticking to him relentlessly, it's still an oddly... relaxing thought.

Just... not having to think about it. For a while. It may not be true freedom, but at least it's a different illusion.

"Yeah, but you honestly want me to believe nice sheets and a good view are that important to you?" Peter pushes. He knows Neal has close to this at home. "Or is it a really good restaurant?"

"Oh, it's _really_ good - and we get to enjoy it all. And then send the bill our gracious host." Who, helpfully, we’re here to take down.

Always a plus. He doesn't elaborate further than this, however. Not out loud.

"If you shoot a few hoops with me, I'll order the most expensive things on the menu," Peter offers, liking that way of thinking if nothing else.

"Male bonding at its finest, eh?" Neal remarks, looking amused again. "All right, then. It's a deal."

"Man am I glad I packed for everything," Peter muses. He goes back to staring out the window. What else is this job going to throw at him?

***

Even though the Hyperion has a three star restaurant, Dave picks them up and takes them to a four star one. They have dressed up, which is good because the minute the door is opened for them, they can see high heels, low dresses, sharp suits and gold in equal measure around fingers as on cards.

The maitre d' greets them, and take them to a table which is clear glass, with what looks very much like expensive jewellery frozen inside. Pointless opulence. It's tacky. It also speaks to the clear desire to social climb on their host's behalf.

"Ah, Misters Young and Storey," Lanchester says, when he sees them. It isn't Denise on his arm now. "Please, join me."

Extremely pointless opulence. Wonderful. Neal can't help a grin, though he makes sure no one else sees.

"Good evening," he replies, as Lanchester greets them. "I must say, you do like to go all-out. I hear it takes three months to get a booking in this place."

"For most people. Helps that I supply them with some very nice refreshments." But he does look pleased that Neal is impressed.

"I hope they still do steak," Peter says, his smile a little more forced.

Neal claps Peter on the shoulder in the way that he can only get away with because they're undercover. "I'm sure you'll be impressed." It certainly doesn't take a genius to tell he's been here before.

Then he flashes Lanchester a smile. "I can imagine. Helps to have a few such arrangements in place. It's amazing what doors they can open."

Peter knows that isn't even a cover lie. He's sure Neal still has far too many secret friends. 

"Let's get our orders in, and then we can start talking a few numbers. I've got some shipments due in soon and I really can't wait to see what you do with them," Lanchester says.

"Perfect. I look forward to getting down to business."

Very much so. Even if he does suddenly look a little distracted by the wine list. Like a kid in a candy store. If he had any more fun, it would probably be illegal.

Oh. Wait...

Peter picks things he knows he is going to like. Even if there's no prices on the menu. He still feels guilty when he reads the little blurb. He picks the starter that looks closest to something he might have eaten before. He is not one to the menu born.

Lanchester doesn't even order. Clearly they know what he likes here. He does, however, tell their waiter what his date will be having.

Neal, meanwhile, makes his selections based on what will go best with the wines he most wants to try - and that, of course, isn't just for his own benefit. He's also - subtly - showing off. Proving how well he knows what he's doing.

When the waiter moves off again, Neal sits back, ridiculously at ease, taking a moment to admire the room. "Now, Mr Lanchester, I really must implore you to talk a little shop. I want to know more about these upcoming shipments of yours."

"Although it is a little... uncouth to do so at the table, if you check your email I think you will find a copy of my manifest has been sent to you. Along with the prices we'd expect you to broker - or to better." He already has his wine, and he's swirling it deliberately now.

Neal arches an eyebrow and pulls out his Blackberry - which, sure enough, has just received a new message. He glances at Lanchester over the top of it, in an impressed-but-not-admitting-it sort of way, then opens the email.

"My, that's quite a list," he remarks, showing it to Peter. "Pleasingly varied. The Syrah should be easy to move... the Malbec... oh, yes, I know just the man."

Peter snorts. Neal very likely means Mozzie. "That's a lot of different labels. Did you say they were all coming in at once?"

Lanchester looks a little arch. "Yes. You do realise I'm not tied into restrictive arrangements with suppliers?"

"Absolutely," Neal answers, looking at the list again - in much the same way as he looks at paintings hung close to fire escapes and back doors. "Allows for a lot more scope. And it keeps things interesting."

"So how many do you want to start with? You know your buyers better than me."

Peter smiles at the attractive woman. It's meant to be one third wheel to another, but the way she starts smouldering over her martini in return makes him jump and kick Neal under the table. "Uh.... sorry. Phone on vibrate. I hate when it goes off," he says, not at all smoothly.

Neal flashes him a look. Hmm. That could be a problem. He decides to give it some thought... later. Right now, he needs to focus.

And not to make jokes about the vibrate setting. Even though it's so hard to resist. Especially when he's in a position to get away with it.

"Twenty cases of each," he answers, businesslike. "Though maybe forty of the Syrah. I should be able to move the lot in a day or two, tops."

"Not bad as a start... our normal starting cut is 8%... we'll go with that until you've got enough under your belt. Shift me fifty of each in a month, or get well over the price we've set as the minimum, and we'll renegotiate." He is studiously ignoring Peter. It is possible he thinks he is an idiot.

"Consider it done," Neal says, brightly. "And watch carefully. There's a reason I've asked for more of the Syrah. I'm going to show you how I predict the market. And then, Mr Lanchester... I am going to make us a great deal more money."

"Oh, a fortune-teller, or did you play stocks sometime?" 

Peter tries to recover some face. "Neal is very good at working out what people want, before they even know they want it. Believe me."

"I've done a little trading here and there." Neal's eyes flick to Peter and then back again, betraying no more than that. "But this is a more specialised trick. Watch a few days whilst I show you... and then, Mr Lanchester, perhaps I'll tell."

He swirls his wine. Takes a sip. Smiles. It's all seduction, in the end.

"Oh I'd love to hear it. I wonder... do you think you can predict a month in advance?" He's leaning in, clearly intrigued.

 _Got you_.

"Oh, I think so. So long as you know what you're looking for and why... it is possible to predict that far ahead. I've done it, on occasion. Tricky, yes, but achievable."

Lanchester leans in. "I'd love to make sure every bottle was saleable.... I mean, really saleable. And my contacts are very, very flexible." 

He sits back. "Hmmm. We shouldn't jump ahead of ourselves. Sell this in advance of it arriving. And unless you have anything further... I think we should enjoy this very nice meal."

Neal gives a deferential nod. "Absolutely."

***

'Very nice' doesn't do it justice - it's pretty damned incredible. And Neal is really rather on top of the world when they get back to their equally incredible hotel; looking forward to relaxing with a book. Or perhaps indulging in a long, hot bath. Maybe even both.

Life, alas, has other ideas. Which is why, instead, he's back to standing at the window, trying to ignore what Peter is doing. And not having much luck.

"You know, you could give me a hand. It would make life easier on you..." 

The mattress does not want to go through the adjoining door. Does not. Peter is currently wedged in with it, and grunting dramatically. "C'mon, Neal. You got your nice meal. Do I have to call Hughes to call this off because you won't help me set the room up right?"

Neal gives a long-suffering sigh. "Suppose I promise, hand-on-heart promise, not to make any attempt to jump out the window or escape in a laundry cart during the night. Do you think then maybe you could trust me to sleep in a room by myself?"

He is studiously not helping. To be perfectly honest, he doesn't mind too much about Peter insisting on them staying in the same room even though they now have one each. It's the part where the other man can't just settle for the couch that's causing the problem.

It looks like a heavy problem. Neal does not do heavy.

"Neal.... you sleep in a room on your own in New York. Where we live. But you are on an expensive wine-tasting holiday. How many CIs get holidays? Come and give me a hand or I'm going to embarrass you by ordering beer with every official meal from now on. And maybe frisking anyone you talk to."

"And risk blowing the mission? You wouldn't dare..."

On the other hand, you can never be quite sure. Determined Peter is a force of nature.

Neal sighs heavily, deigning to pace over to Peter with an extraordinarily put-out look on his face. Though rather than doing anything productive, he stays a few steps back, considering the problem.

"Left a bit," he suggests, unhelpfully.

"Forwards a bit," Peter counters, grumpily. "Frisking would not risk the mission. But it might make people less inclined to spend money on you. I know those hands get dirty with ink and paint enough.... and mattresses... so can it or I.... I'll tell El never to make you waffles again."

He has to think of some leverage.

Neal continues to look put-out, although it's getting harder to hide the flickers of amusement. "You can be a harsh taskmaster at times, you know that?" he says, and moves in to help. Even though he wholly disapproves.

Well, almost wholly.

The damned thing does not want to move. Peter's bending it, pulling it, kicking it but it just won't move.

"You know you need that. An authority figure who will..." grunt, "bend at times and not at others... it's why you didn't go completely insane on the inside..."

"And in this little scenario, you would be said authority figure? Because from where I'm standing, you need to do a little more bending to fit the bill..."

Yes, he is misbehaving. Rather a lot. But Peter is trying to drag a double mattress between two rooms in a five-star hotel for wholly unnecessary reasons. Neal is just thanking his lucky stars that they've got an adjoining door. Although maybe that is more of an enabling factor...

"I bend enough for you," Peter tuts. And he pushes again. And then yelps when his back spasms.

"Okay, fine, I'll take the couch. And leave this here for the maid to deal with." He walks into Neal's room, then kicks the offending item. Which happily boings back into his own room, mocking him all the more.

"Sometimes you just have to learn when to push and when to give," Neal remarks, sagely. He looks happy enough that Peter has - this time - given in, and paces contentedly back to his window.

Peter grouses. "I'm going to grab a shower. I hope I can trust you not to run to the bar without me?"

"I'll try to resist the urge," Neal promises. "Much as the thought had crossed my mind, I wouldn't want to... circumvent my authority figure now, would I?"

"Oh I am sure you would. I just know you enjoy having me play your dumb muscle too much. Don't let it get to your head." He grabs his washbag, and heads into Neal's bathroom.

"I never said you were dumb..." Neal calls after him, studiously not denying any of the rest of it. Then he smiles to himself, settles back on his couch (whilst he still can) and pulls a book out of the bag beside it - _The Undiscovered Self_ by Jung.

Always nice to find a way to indulge a good pun.

Peter is dubious about the little soaps that look like food so he uses his own things. He is also dubious about the millions of towels, but they are nice and fluffy so when he finally finishes he towels his hair off, rubs (not pats) everything else, and then shrugs one of the equally fluffy gowns on. And then the slippers. He looks arch at the book but passes no comment.

"How long do you want to spend selling your new stock?" he asks. And sits on the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious.

Neal looks up when Peter comes back in, putting the book down on his knee. "A few days at least," he answers. "Fast enough that they'll be impressed, but not so quick as to look haphazard. And I'll need to sell to a mixture of retailers and entertainers... perhaps even another broker, for some of it. To prove that my clients are diverse enough."

"Well the bureau gave you a nice long whitelist. I assume it will be mostly phone-calls and emails. And the rest of the time strolling along beaches?"  
"I'm sure we can fit in a clandestine meeting in a back room somewhere. For old time's sake. Otherwise, yes. It's a high-rolling line of work, after all. The whole point is to get the business done, and then focus on the pleasure."

"So what terrible things are you expecting me to enjoy in the line of duty?" Peter asks. "As soon as he said 'Miami' I know you drew up an itinerary."

"But of course. I have an itinerary for a number of major cities. It's getting to them that poses a problem these days." He glances down at his ankle, then remembers all over again that he's currently off-leash and smiles to himself.

"And believe me," Neal goes on, smoothly, "there are _plenty_ of things we can do whilst we're here. Museums, wonderful architecture, the largest banking district in the US... oh, also, how do you feel about opera?"

He has an idea as to the answer. But a man has to try.

"You are going nowhere near the banks, and while I know about opera, enough to keep a cover, I would rather go for a bikini wax. So filter your list a little."

Museums sound good. Architecture a little less so.

"Fine, fine, but you're missing a treat. I was just trying to broaden your cultural horizons a little..."

He pouts, trying to look endearing.

"So what's option number two you were softening me for?" 

"The New World Symphony Orchestra," Neal answers. "It's right in the middle of their concert season, and I'm nigh-on certain I could still get us tickets. And then of course there's the Museum of Contemporary Art..."

He looks wistful. Perhaps he's been before.

"Yes to both. But I also want to catch a Marlins game, and get something to take back for El." Quid pro quo and all.

Neal does not look too fazed by this - much as he has little interest in baseball, it's a step up from football, and sometimes you have to take what blessings life gives you. Plus the second half of what Peter said is something he can work with.

"Of course. The shopping should certainly be no problem - we can head on down to South Beach. And there's a lot of very exclusive clubs over there as well. We should probably make sure we're seen in at least one or two..."

Peter throws his hands up. "Fine! Fine. Just nothing I can't tell my wife when we get back, or she will think the present is an apology, not a nice touch."

"Peter Burke, would I lead you astray?" Neal asks, looking positively angelic. (All right, mostly angelic.) "I have no intention of doing anything beyond implying to our hosts that we're enjoying ourselves and living a lifestyle that befits our profession."

"Yeah but you can do that without El filing for divorce. Or making me feel uncomfortable. I'm not tired, fancy making me feel stupid at poker?"

"Gladly. And I promise, nothing that happens on this trip will make your lovely wife anything other than proud of her noble, crime-fighting husband."

"Days when I wish I still wore a recorder..." Peter pats the bed. "Come on. I know I might have to play with you some day, you seem to have the most ridiculous under-cover assignments since the original James Bond."

Neal raises his eyebrows and grins. "Should I break open the minibar and mix us up a couple of martinis, Felix?"

"Only if under no circumstances do you go all Licence To Kill on me... I think I'm going to need a few."

"I make no promises..." Neal says, moving over to the minibar. He pulls out a bottle of vodka, tossing it lightly into the air so it flips over before he catches it. "Shaken or stirred?"

***

In the end, they have quite a week. In between meetings and communications with various buyers - some undercover FBI, some genuine but in collusion with the FBI nonetheless - and a number of unnecessarily decadent-and-or-baseball-related afternoons out, both men are kept pretty busy. The final deal goes smoothly - twenty cases of that enigmatic Syrah to a high-class restaurateur-cum-FBI agent - and once it's completed, Neal and Peter start making their way back towards the Hyperion.

They know they're being tailed. Lanchester has had people following them for much of the time, but the cover has clearly held and it isn't too much of a concern now. It does, however, serve to explain why Neal's phone rings mere moments after they've left the final meeting.

Peter lengthens his stride when the phone goes off. He's feeling pretty damn good about this, and the sunshine is certainly helping. Behind his aviator shades, he's beaming.

"I think that you've made the impression you set out for," he says, waiting for Neal to answer. 

So it seems," Neal agrees, looking equally happy. He taps green on his Blackberry - where the caller ID proves his suspicions right - and lifts it to speak. "Gregory, hi," he says.

"Neal. You've done better than we hoped. I have to say you live up to your reputation. That's why the boss wants to meet with you - and I have to say, you should be flattered."

Neal glances at Peter at those words, even though the other man can't hear what's been said. "Then I will be," he answers, levelly. "Just name the time and place, and we'll be there."

"At the docks, marina forty-seven. Come now, he doesn't like to be kept waiting." And Gregory hangs up.

"Well, your suspicions were right," Neal says to Peter, as he slips his phone back into his pocket. "Lanchester isn't the top man. His boss wants to meet us."

"Hmm, I suppose you didn't get any details of who is the top man?" Peter is pleased, but it's now unknown variable time again. Risk.

"Lanchester didn't say - just that we should come to marina forty-seven at the docks. Now. Odd place for a meet... though I imagine the man in question has a yacht. Maybe he prefers to stay off dry land."

"I would. Far enough out, anything is legal," Peter muses. "Plus, unanchored, it can be a good get-away vehicle too." Yes. He does think like this all the time. "Okay. You alright with this?"

"Sure. I've got you watching my back, right?"

Neal is too calm as he says this. He's high on his own success, and sometimes that isn't his most rational state of mind.

"Yeah, I've got your back. Just... try not to do anything too... Neal." Then he hitches his head at their tail. "Reckon he will give us a ride?"

"After this week, he should practically be inviting us to dinner," Neal points out. "And don't worry... I'll be careful."

Peter turns and walks towards their tail. The man already has his phone out and is rifling through emails or messages, or just pressing on the scroll. He doesn't respond til Peter clears his throat right in front of him.

"We're ready."

Neal can't help a smirk. He loves watching Peter wind up people who aren't him.

The man, meanwhile, looks up. Glances between Peter and Neal as if sizing them up - or perhaps just deciding whether to deign to reply. Whatever his internal thought process, his response is a level, "Fine. Follow me, then."

So they do.

***

Their tail leads them to his car and drives them out to the marina. He obviously knows where he's going, because he simply keeps driving, never once asking for any clarification. Eventually, they're passing a great swathe of mooring places - some filled, some not - until they reach a particularly large docking area fronted by a painted sign marked with the number forty-seven. It's in a fairly remote part of the docks, and there aren't any other people around.

Just a ship. It certainly isn't a yacht - it's a freight ship, sleek and modern but also grey and imposing, marked in bold letters with the name 'Red Admiral'.

"This is it," says their tail-cum-driver.

Neal tries not to look worried. Suddenly he's starting to think he should be.

Peter is also feeling a little less confident, but he just tugs on his cuffs, and nods at Neal. "Guess we know how he's getting his lovely goods in," is all he says, as he moves to get out of the car. He likes freighters less than yachts. Yachts are decadent. Freighters are bulky, business, and 'trouble down at the dock' with a freighter on TV usually ends up with people in pieces in the cargo.

But that's TV. Which is hyper-real. Of course.

Neal gets out of the car quickly, turning at once so as to keep the freighter in his line of view. Something about this feels wrong now, and he's battling to work out what it is before it makes its move.

"Guess we do," he says, a little belatedly, in response to Peter. "Question is... why meet us here?"

Before Peter can answer, there is the quiet blur of rubber on tarmac, and the clunk-swish of a car door opening. Peter turns and isn't surprised when Gregory Lanchester appears around the wide hangar-type door. "Ah, you beat me here. Good. I see you found the driver."

"Kind of you to send him for us," Peter replies, polite enough, but scanning for people with guns. It feels like a gun sort of a moment. A Jabba the Hutt sort of moment. 

Neal can feel it too, and he isn't happy about it. He hides it well enough, but at the same time he's quick to move around the car, standing closer to Peter. Knowing it's the best place to be if this is about to go sour.

"You seemed anxious to get us here," he says to Lanchester, as levelly as possible. 

"Yes, Mr. Craig is a difficult man to schedule meetings with. And he's impressed enough that he wants a face-to-face with you." Gregory walks up to them, clasps a hand on each of their arms, wanting them to move to let him between them.

Peter is not impressed, but he doesn't obstruct too much, watching for Neal's lead on this. 

This sounds ominous. On the other hand... it could just be that Lanchester's boss _is_ impressed. Which is, technically, a good thing.

Neal still looks calm. He doesn't feel it, however. Either way, he knows he's got to keep playing along if they're going to see this through.

"I see," he replies. "So Mr Craig is aboard already?" 

"I'll take you to him," is the reply. Lanchester pushes a little harder, not forceful but firm. He wants them to turn and walk with him. 

Reluctantly, Peter turns. This is very wrong and he knows it, but he can't blow the whole thing when they could be getting the top guy. He wants to ask something but he bites his lip on all the nervous, obvious things he needs to know. Like: are you going to shoot us, where is this boss, does he even exist, and why are you touching my arm still? 

Oh, now this is not good. It has a very alarming hint of about-to-get-shot-and-dumped-in-the-marina about it - and what's worse, Neal can tell that Peter is worried. And that is never good.

"Where are we going, Gregory?" he asks, deciding to get straight to the point. "There's no need for the secrecy. You know we're both eager to meet your boss... especially after the highly profitable week we've had." 

"There's every need for secrecy. I can't have everyone knowing where my supply chain is, or there'd be no need for me, would there?" Gregory seems a little hostile about their reluctance. "Are you declining my hospitality now?" 

"Absolutely not," Neal replies at once. "As ever, we're grateful for it. But I'm sure you can imagine that we would want an idea as to where we're going."

He gives Gregory a very careful look. _Trust me_ , his eyes say. Though he doesn't quite dare say it out loud. 

"You'll see soon enough. It's okay, we have phones. Your business won't suffer, and you won't regret it." His words and tone are nice enough, but there's very much an element of 'get on now or else'.

"I'm not very good with..." Peter makes a wave motion with one hand. He does his best to look green. "Neal... is just being polite about that. But it's okay, I... don't mind admitting it." 

"I'm... sure you'll be fine," Neal says, in what he hopes is a subtly reassuring tone. "It's a big enough boat. They're easier."

They're being Shanghaied. _He's_ being Shanghaied. Again. And it was not exactly enjoyable the last time, even if it did eventually lead to a rather profitable if brief stint in Bangkok. 

Peter starts backing away from the boat. For someone who is not really undercover all that often, he seems to be making a good play of this. "No... bigger means heavier means more likely to sink means Titanic and horrible grinding noises and further to run to the edge to be sick..."

Gregory looks... unimpressed. "I can call it all off. If you're really that upset by it. But I'm sure a few travel sickness pills and maybe a good enough distraction would help you forget about all of this. Or... Mr. Young could come alone..." 

"That won't be necessary. We're both going, and that's final," Neal says, in the firmest tone he can manage right now. He is _supposed_ to be the one in charge, after all.

He looks straight at Lanchester. Smiles. "I'm sure your hospitality will continue to excel and once we rendezvous with your employer we can get down to business."

Peter makes a time-out signal with his hands, and walks away - over to the doors. Even if they aren't going to walk out of this, he needs to talk to him in private. Plus, their initial reticence has to look like it has a good enough reason, or he could just have blown it even without meaning to.

And surely even a crime-boss has to respect travel-sickness. Fake travel-sickness, admittedly.

Gregory rolls his eyes at Neal. "Go. Sort it out. He's not going to listen to me, is he? Tell me what you reasonably need to make this happen and we'll make it work."

Neal looks somewhat exasperated - which isn't entirely an act - and holds up a hand. "Just give me a moment. One way or another, I'll make this work."

He walks off after Peter, dropping his voice so that they can't be overheard. "We have to do this," he points out. "We have to do this or our cover is going to be blown and this whole week will have been for nothing."

“This whole week will be for nothing if we both end up dead at the bottom of the Atlantic,” Peter points out, not swayed. “Neal. We can hand this over to Interpol. Here’s a boat, a name, a ship… if we walk away we’ll be giving them real leads.”

“That’s assuming they even _let_ us walk away!” Neal points out. “Besides, we’ve got very workable aliases in place. We let this play out… and we’ll get a lot more than just leads. We can take these guys down, Peter.”

“With what resources? As you can see, they have means. A lot of means. Once we get on that boat we have no backup. We have your smile and my fists and I don’t like those odds.” He’s hissing now, trying to keep his voice low and urgent.

Neal grabs Peter’s arm. He hopes it looks good from a distance. And, indeed, that it works up close. “They are not going to let us walk away from this. If we don’t get on that boat willingly they will either make us, shoot us, or both. We’re in this now. We don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Peter says, bluntly. “Neal, I can get us out of here. If you follow my lead…”

“No,” Neal interrupts, suddenly, making a snap decision that he very much hopes he’ll be able to live with later. “We’re getting on that boat.”

And without another word – or any explanation – he turns and stalks off in full spoilt-playboy mode, walking back over to Gregory and nigh-on taking the man’s arm. “Let’s go,” he says. “He’ll be along.”

Damn, but he hopes this will work. On both counts.

Peter just… stares. For a minute he considers shouting at the top of his voice, reminding Neal who is in charge here, reminding him of…

But he can’t. Because he isn’t, not to everyone else’s eyes. And Neal is going to get himself killed if Peter doesn’t follow him.

He wavers, looking utterly, utterly miserable and torn. And then he swears under his breath in a way he very rarely does… and follows after him. He hopes his face isn’t as hot red with embarrassment as it feels.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now on a boat and heading out into international waters, Neal and Peter's cover story is pushed to the limits.

The Red Admiral, it turns out, is a large freighter with several upper decks modified into something more fitting to a high-class cruise ship than a cargo vessel. Once they’re aboard, it doesn’t waste time in setting sail – to where or for how long still remaining an unwelcome mystery.

Neal’s plan looks to have placated Gregory for the moment, because there’s no more hints of unpleasantries; quite the opposite, in fact, as they’re shown into the rather decadent-looking upper levels of the ship. There are a fair few other people around, all of them employees of Lanchester and his as-yet faceless boss.

Eventually, they find themselves in a bar area. It’s wide and elegant, with a broad window offering excellent views… except that said views currently involve Miami fading into the distance. Which is not a good thing at all.

Neal tries to ignore it. He orders champagne at the bar – feeling it somehow fits the mood he’s supposed to be exuding better than any of the wines on offer – and tries to act like he enjoys being hustled onto mystery cruises.

The trouble is, on certain levels, he probably _does_.

“Overnight, we will lose signal. And where we’re going there isn’t good service, so your phones will be useless. We have landlines once there. So before you have too much fun, I would advise you arrange for your houseplants to be watered for a little longer,” Gregory says, nursing a scotch himself. “And don’t worry about loss of earnings. Once we are back, we’ll look over your average earnings and recompense you with some extra as a bonus.”

Peter frowns. “How long extra watering?”

“That sounds acceptable to me,” Neal says, nodding. “Exactly how long are we going to be gone for? Just so I can advise my associates as to the specifics for my… houseplants.”

He has the feeling that he isn’t going to like the answer to this. And if they are gone for a great length of time… well. If nothing else, Mozzie is not going to be impressed with him.

“A month, at least.” He lifts his tumbler. “Consider it a free – and wages paid – vacation.”

Peter looks like he’s about to faint. Or punch him. “A m-month?” He barely manages to say the word.

“Yes. Travel, tour, return…”

_Oh dear_. Neal tries to distract attention from Peter by tilting his glass in Gregory’s direction, smiling broadly. “You certainly know how to show a man a good time,” he says, graciously. “Are you this generous to all your prospective business associates or did I make even more of an impression than I’d hoped?”

“Ah, some… but yes, not many. We’d have no profits if we treated you all like this,” Gregory agrees.

“I need to make a call. Please excuse me,” says Peter, pulling his phone out.

“Give your houseplants my regards,” Neal says, a little devilishly, before turning his attention back to Gregory. “Now, tell me more about this unexpectedly extravagant ship of yours…”

***

He should call the Bureau helpline first. Should. But it’s his wife that Peter calls before them, and she knows better than to blow his cover.

“Hello?”

“Hi Stacey, it’s Peter.” 

“Oh hi Peter, sorry I didn’t recognise your number.” 

“It’s okay. I have a favour to ask if you don’t mind. Business is going to keep me away longer.”

“How much longer?”

He didn’t want to say it. But he had to. “A month.”

Even though she doesn’t want to blow his cover, she can't answer at once. “Oh. Is it going well?”

“Yeah, really well. I was hoping you’d walk my dog for me.”

“Of course. You know I love your dog. Honey is a sweetheart.”

He smiles. Of course she’d find a way to say it. “When I get back I’m gonna bring you the biggest bouquet of fuchsia. I know how much you hate chrysanthemums.” Which was their secret code for ‘not in imminent danger of death, but also not safe enough for azaleas’.

“Oh, I would. And some wine. Bring me back some wine. Let me know when you’re coming?”

“No problem. Speak soon.”

“Yes, and good luck.”

He hangs up. Tries to keep it together. Neal is at the bar having the time of his life, and he is… he really isn’t happy about this. Maybe Neal planned on slipping him when they… no. No, he wouldn’t sell him out to anyone. Even if he’d be tempted just to… run. But he hadn’t run yet.

A moment after working out the code words, he calls up the Bureau and tells them that they’d left Marina 47 less than an hour ago, and that he’d be back in a month. And also: help. Watch me. Be ready to pull us out. Not that he thinks they would be able to, but he has to ask.

And then he schools his expression and goes back to the bar, where there was already raucous laughter and way too much alcohol. Which he intends to avail himself of. Now.

***

Neal looks far calmer by the time Peter gets back – perhaps it’s the reassuring knowledge of what Peter’s been doing. Then again, it may also have something to do with the fact that it’s very _good_ champagne, and the barman is not being at all stingy with the bottle.

“…so then I said ‘if that’s really a Bentley, then this really _is_ a 1954 Shiraz!’” Which is apparently terribly funny because his entire audience immediately erupts with laughter.

Peter is glad he wasn’t there for the start of the joke because whilst he would have got it, he doesn’t really find flashing expensive things in people’s faces all that tasteful. But he smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Ah, that one again. Have you told them the Japanese golfer one yet?”

“I was leaving that one for you,” Neal answers, smoothly. “How are your houseplants?”

He’s glad Peter is back though. Much as things seem to be going a lot better… the odds improve when there’s two of them.

“Wilting, but my neighbour is going to look after them. I owe her a really nice present when I get back, though…” Peter says, trailing that thought off.

“Speaking of lovely women, I notice you both came rather unprepared for a long journey,” Gregory says, with a telling smirk. “Unless you have friends in your very small briefcases…”

Neal gives him an arch look. “The journey came as something of a surprise. What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well, I have a lot of very lovely ladies working for me. I’m sure you could have your pick of them if you asked them for a drink, a dance…” He nods at the woman behind the bar, and at the small crowd of them mixed in with the men.

Peter looks… shocked. “Oh. Er. That’s very kind, but I… really don’t like boats to start with…”

“No… I insist. It will help take your mind off it. Miranda, for instance, has the most fantastic hands. She used to be a masseuse.”

Which is when Neal realises that they’re in trouble. Well. To be more accurate, _Peter_ is in trouble, and this time it’s with good reason. Neal knows all too well that Peter will not do anything that involves cheating on his lovely wife, cover or no cover, and whilst there are some things Neal will push for to keep this charade going, he knows this could never be one of them.

On the other hand… if they _don’t_ take advantage of the hospitality, Gregory is going to be offended. And start asking questions. And then they’re back to worrying about being shot and dumped in the sea.

For a second, Neal’s mind races, fighting to find the invisible third option. Only then… he does, and it’s completely, completely insane and a terrible idea and… far too brilliant all the same. It explains everything. Covers everything. It… works. And sometimes, you just have to roll with what works.

“Much as we appreciate your _very_ generous offer, that will not be necessary,” Neal says to Gregory, with the smile of a man about to play his fourth ace.

And before Gregory can question why, before _Peter_ can question why, and certainly before Neal can suffer the unusual experience of losing his nerve, he puts his glass down, turns, grabs the front of Peter’s shirt and pulls him in for a very sudden, _very_ firm kiss.

There are many things Peter expects and can roll with. Many things. Being shot, for instance. (Happened several times, mostly with a vest on, once without but it just grazed his calf and made him swear to wear the vest even when swimming.) Being chased. Being called out on your bluff. Being dragged aboard a pleasure-freighter.

Being kissed by another man – and by _Neal_ \- is not one of them. He drops his glass of very nice bourbon, which thuds into the heavily carpeted floor and somehow bounces, and rolls somewhere leaving a sticky trail of alcohol. Which Peter doesn’t even notice. Because… kissing. Neal. Well, being kissed _by_ Neal is more accurate.

He doesn’t really have time to do anything other than let it happen at first, and his only real thought is ‘huh, softer than I imagined’, and then his mind kicks back in and he grabs Neal’s hands, forces him back, bodily, into the bar so it jars into the small of his back enough to make the kiss break, and then he grabs Neal’s face and kisses him back. But bites him on the lip in the process, and then pulls back enough to stare at him (handily turned now so that no one can read their lips) and growl, “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” under the cover of some sweet nothing.

Having not thought this far ahead in the first place, Neal certainly doesn’t expect that, and whilst he was sort of prepared for the experience of kissing Peter, being kissed _back_ takes him a little by surprise… and makes his stomach jolt in a way he really didn’t expect.

He looks – and feels – somewhat punch-drunk as the kiss breaks. “It will work,” he whispers. “Trust me. _Please_.”

“Oh… my apologies. I thought you were work partners,” says Gregory, hands up. He certainly looks nothing other than pleased for them. “I’ll arrange for your bags to be moved to one room, then, and we’ll say no more about it.”

Peter keeps his eyes on Neal’s for a moment longer, with the warning look of ‘you’re going to make up for this later’ and ‘this isn’t over’, and then he steps back and out of Neal’s space, leaving him against the bar and readjusting his tie.

“He snores,” Peter says, looking suddenly unflappable. A little flustered, but nothing more than that. “Two is good… in case he doesn’t shut up.”

Neal idly brushes his jacket down, picking up his champagne and taking another sip. Well, mouthful. “You prefer me that way,” he says, so very smoothly. And damn it but now he is flirting as well.

Then he turns back to Gregory. “No apology necessary,” he says. “We rarely tell people straight away. Many are not so open minded.”

“I prefer… well. Not in front of the ladies,” Peter rejoins. Actually, not in front of anyone. Ever. Because what he wants to really honestly say is a lot worse.

“Oh, don’t worry. Miami, remember. And it’s the twenty-first century. It’s not like you’d get stoned any more.” Gregory shrugs. “Where were we…?”

"I believe we were discussing the finer things in life," Neal answers, having caught his mental footing by now. He is trying not to think about how dead he's going to be when Peter gets him alone, however... but surely this is by no means the worst thing he's ever done to the man? Surely? 

"Please... I'll just use the bar. It's one of the only reasons I got on the boat for," Peter says, and turns to ask the barmaid for another glass... and the whole bottle of bourbon.

Gregory nods. "Yes. And whilst good internet connection and mobile telephony are our shameful hold-outs I think you will find everything else to your liking. We even have air-con installed."

Smooth and slick but with little opportunity for communication. How convenient. Right now, though, Neal is slightly less preoccupied with this than he should be, and slightly more preoccupied with the fact that Peter looks intent on drinking more than is wise. Which is not something Neal has ever really seen him do before.

The trouble is... all he can do is heed his own advice and roll with it.

So he orders more champagne.

"I'm sure we'll be very comfortable," Neal says to Gregory "She's certainly an impressive ship. Do you travel aboard often or is this a special occasion?"

He is mostly just making conversation... but if it garners a little information along the way, so much the better. Maybe it will help him placate Peter...

"I mostly stay in Miami, other people handle the procurement side of things. But occasionally I make an exception, and meet up with people I don't see very often." Gregory isn't meaning the women on the boat, either.

"I take it she's never gone all Titanic on you? This isn't the 'Revenge of the Red Admiral'?" Peter asks over a very, very healthy drink.

"I'm sure she's very safe," Neal remarks, slapping Peter on the shoulder in what _looks_ like a friendly, reassuring manner, but is actually a last-ditch attempt to snap him out of it. Which... doesn't exactly sit well with what he says next. "Besides, remember that if all else fails...-" - hand against his own chest - "-...my heart will go on."

Champagne. Lots and lots of champagne. It's sounding increasingly like a good idea.

Peter's eyes narrow. He looks about ready to throw Neal overboard - Federal probationer or not - "I hope you're good at swimming," he points out. "Don't ever expect me to sing that."

Gregory claps his hands together delightedly. "Oh you two are _such_ a couple. How long have you been together?"

"Oh, nigh-on eight years now," Neal answers, before Peter can get a word in. "Well, I say eight years - we _met_ eight years ago, but it was... a long courtship, shall we say?" He leans in closer to Gregory, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I made him pursue me. I like a man who doesn't give up the chase."

This damn hole is getting deeper and deeper and he can't stop digging. He guesses it's the underlying fear for his life which is the primary cause... though possibly being more than a little champagne-drunk is also playing into it.

"He made me chase him... because he kept stealing my work," Peter counters. "He would deliberately under-cut my sales, sometimes into his own profit margin, because he's a fool when he's in love. I had to hunt him down, or I'd lose my job."

It's Peter's turn to drape an arm around Neal, his voice a low, predatory rumble. "Don't let his clever mouth trick you. He's the one who wanted this relationship. He's the one who started it, because apparently I was too irresistible. I mean, look at him! He could have his pick of any man, woman or barely-legal bit of tail. I must have something going right."

The bourbon vanishes. Another one appears. It also vanishes. 

Gregory drums his fingers over his glass, looking from one to the other. "It's hard to work out which of you to trust... so I guess I'm going to play the middle ground on this one. But yes, you do... look made for one another. No wonder you seemed inseparable."

Neal is slightly taken aback by this, but he lets that translate into a rather touched look, deliberately moving in closer as if he thinks the unexpected hugging is a terribly wonderful idea... which in a way it sort of is because...

...no, no. More champagne _now_.

"Oh, we were," he goes on, with a positively angelic smile that somehow manages to betray nothing else. "And then two years ago our business plans offered wonderful opportunities for permanent collaboration. And we've never looked back."

Peter holds his glass out to clink with Neal. "Butch and Sundance," he says, by way of a toast. "Or something along those lines."

If he doesn't stop drinking at this rate soon, he's never going to make it back to the room.

"To you," Gregory agrees. "In a way I envy you, but then... I get to accessorise, and I never have to worry about waking up to find sofa throws, or whatever else it is you get when you settle down."

"Both sides have their perks," Neal concedes. "I admit, I used to enjoy the variety, but now I enjoy the certainty..."

Before he can get any worse, there's movement off to the side as the door to the bar area opens and another man comes in. He's tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a suit though not a tie, and he makes his way over to Gregory at once, pausing close by.

"Boss," he says, with a nod. "Sorted that little problem for you."

"Wonderful. Neal, Peter, I'd like you to meet James. James is a very reliable member of my team. He'll be looking after you both here and on arrival. He will take your cells tomorrow to ensure all your contacts are transferred to our operator when we arrive, in case you need to make a call."

Peter stops himself in his tracks before he can go into a list of all the benefits of being married to Elizabeth, and sobers up a bit when he sees James. "Hi James."

James gives them both a nod. "Mr Storey. Mr Young." Obviously he knows who they are. "Good to meet you at last. You want anything on this trip, you let me know."

"Thank you," Neal replies. He supposes the introduction of the muscle was inevitable... he'd just rather it wasn't so tall.

"How about a ride back to Miami?" Peter asks.

"Oh _Peter_ ," Neal says, slapping him (mostly lightly) on the chest, as if highly amused by the joke. "You're going to be fine. Once you get a good night's sleep, you'll feel much better." He leans in closer, whispering loud enough for other people to hear. "And I'm sure I can help with that."

Champagne. Champagne. There's never going to be enough.

"I never sleep well with you in the room," is Peter's quick reply. And there goes more bourbon. When did the boat hit turbulence, he wonders, and holds onto the bar when he puts the glass down. 

"One room," Gregory tells James.

"Aha, gotcha," James says, with a knowing little smile. "I did have my suspicions..."

"Speaking of rooms," Neal cuts in, having found a drop of lucidity amidst the sea of insanity, "perhaps it would be best if we retired for the night? I for one could do with being a little less...-" - he walks fingers _very_ flirtatiously up Peter's arm - "-...vertical."

“Everyone has their suspicions about Neal,” Peter grouses. “And they also think he is interested in them...” He bats at the hand, not even looking at him. “Drinking.”

“Much as I know how you enjoy drinking... I'm sure I can think of something you'll enjoy more...” Neal points out. “Why don't we go and investigate our lovely _private_ room and then I can prove it to you?”

“I'm talking to Gregory and James... sorry, what's your last name?” Peter says, still bluntly refusing. “See, I don't even know his name yet, how can we leave now?”

“He's James Smith,” Gregory answers. “And we've got a long trip to talk on. It's okay, you can talk to us plenty tomorrow.”

“You see?” Neal says to Peter, in his terribly reasonable voice. “We're entirely at liberty to go off on our own.”

He really does wish Peter would take the hint.

Back in the room where everyone will think they are... that he and Neal are... Peter realises it would be a good idea, but he can't quite bring himself to let it happen. “But I like...” What? The company? The vaguest sense of not feeling like everyone on the boat is imagining what you are doing with your penis? “Bourbon?”

Damn it. Reasonable is not working. And _unreasonable_... is so very, very much worse.

Neal downs the last of his champagne, puts the glass back on the bar, then turns, grabs hold of Peter again, and pulls him in for a quick, firm kiss. “Peter Storey, if you don't take me back to our room this instant, all these nice people are going to get an unexpectedly graphic lesson in the things I can do...-” - he traces a fingertip over Peter's lips - “-...with just this finger.”

Peter goes pale. And then pink. And then pale. He swallows, and tries very hard to become invisible. He briefly considers calling him out (what is the worst Neal could do?) but then he thinks what might happen and just nods.

Crap. Now they're going to be thinking about his penis, Neal's finger, and Peter's mouth. Now it's even worse.

“Well on that note, I'm going to take Franzie here and show her the stars. James can show you two lovebirds to... well. The special suite,” Gregory offers. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Goodnight,” Neal replies, and then takes Peter's arm. “Shall we?”

James seems to be smiling to himself, though he's every bit businesslike as he speaks. “If you two just follow me...” and he gestures to the door.

Peter shrugs the arm off, so that he can take one last swig of drink. And then straightens his suit out from all the grabbings. “Yes. Let's.”

So James leads the way out of the bar and into the equally extravagant corridors of the ship – first along a wide hallway, and then into an elevator which takes them up two decks. A little further, and then...

“Here we are.” He produces a keycard, handing it to Neal. “I do hope you gentlemen have a good night.”

“If I sleep I will,” Peter grumbles, but smiles thin and worn at James, just waiting for him to leave.

James continues to look quietly amused, but he nods politely and withdraws without another word. Once he's headed off, Neal turns straight to the door, opening it with the keycard and letting them both in. The room beyond certainly fits the 'special suite' line, although Neal doesn't allow himself long to admire it because as the door shuts behind them he's suddenly concerned for his life again... and starting to regret the champagne.

“...That could have gone better,” he admits.

“I can think of ways, too. Do you want to start the list or do I?” Peter asks, yanking at his tie. “Because my list is quite long and starts back when we were still under US jurisdiction.”

“Just... try to resist the urge to over-react?” Neal says. Implores, possibly. “I realise this isn't exactly wonderful but we needed to keep our cover and _not_ get shot, and so far we appear to have done well at both...”

He needs to be doing something. Something to make this less bad than it already is. Cold, artificial sobriety – which isn't real sobriety at all, but feels unpleasantly like it – has hit and it's throwing an unpleasantly probing light on the evening they've just had.

Peter starts advancing. He throws his tie on the bed. “You kissed me. With no warning. On multiple occasions. And then proceeded to make everyone think... Neal, I'm married!” This last is hissed low and quiet. “Did you forget that? Or the part where you don't normally go around... just kissing people?!”

Neal holds up his hands defensively. “You also don't usually go around selling fake wines to dubious businessmen on behalf of equally dubious businessmen! It's a _cover_ , Peter. I was trying to save you from having to _actually_ cheat on your wife with a boatful of ladies of negotiable affection! This way none of them will bother you – because I know how badly you deal with that – and we've got a perfect excuse to slip away any time we need to talk in private.”

Pause. Breath. Bad paragraph.

“Yes, because they all think we're... in... Neal! I'm not... Augh!” He flings himself backwards onto the bed, and nearly brains himself. “We have to break up. And then I can pretend I'm... rebounding depressed or something and then I can hide in a room until we can go home.”

“I know you're not,” Neal replies, a little desperately. “But we can't break up. If we do, there'll be too many questions. We just have to keep playing the cover and see this through.”

"I'm not sure I know.... how. I mean. I'm... not sure I can," says Peter, staring up at him pleadingly from the bed. "Elizabeth told you how useless I am."

Neal sits down on the bed. Sits. Does not lie. Sits supportively As Men Do. Nothing else. "You're not useless. You just need... to loosen up a little. Trust me. They bought every word tonight. If they hadn't half-abducted us, I'd say this was too easy." 

"I had to get ragingly drunk to do it, and I'm already worried about tomorrow. All I need to say is a 'she' in the wrong place, or.... or... not act sufficiently like I like you or... even act like myself and then maybe they'll shoot us," he complains. "Neal, I am not even any good at being a heterosexual flirt..."

"Well, true," Neal concedes. "But you won't be flirting with some random woman. You'll be flirting with me... and that means I can cover for you. So long as you don't say anything _too_ outrageous... although the way this is going, I reckon we could get away with a lot." 

"I should have gone with being the strong, silent type but now that's never going to work. I don't.... I don't even know... how do you look at people, Neal? When you're lying? Why is it so easy?" He flings an arm over his eyes, willing the boat to calm down.

"It just is," Neal tells him. Really fighting the urge to lie down as well now. "You become the cover. Become the con. And that way, everything just feels as natural as breathing." 

"I'm not a con man," Peter replies, sounding... mournful. "I get them, I understand them and I catch them... but I'm... I'm... just Peter. I don't do well at not being Peter."

"You're doing fine so far." The urge is too strong now, and Neal lies down, on his side. Making sure to leave enough of a gap that Peter doesn't get the wrong idea. "Just... keep going with it. I've seen you pull off much better covers than you give yourself credit for." 

"I didn't have to kiss you on those," he replies, and turns just a little to look at him. "Do you think Elizabeth will be pissed?"

"...I'm hoping for 'warmly amused'," Neal admits, the barest flicker of something in his eyes. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps worry. Possibly both. "And much as I agree she might not be wholly delighted about the idea... I think she'd prefer it to you having to sleep with an assortment of random women to maintain your cover. Believe it or not, that was one of my primary motivations for initiating this whole mess." 

"Well. I guess I should be saying thank you, but I'm not gonna until we get out of this alive and with modesty and honour relatively intact."

"I'll settle for a lack of physical violence for the time being," Neal says, with a slight smile that he quickly suppresses. "And look on the bright side... now you don't have to try to drag a giant mattress into my room again." 

"I might still have to. And I am under no circumstances making fake sex noises. Period. I mean it."

Neal tries his best to look put-out, just for the effect. Because there is still more than a little devilishness in him, even at this point. "Really? Not even a little? I bet I could make it so they wouldn't _dare_ ask questions..." 

Peter goes an interesting shade that matches the carpet. "Neal... I don't even want to know, do I?"

"...Probably not," Neal concedes, and gets up suddenly. He paces over to a cabinet on the far side of the room, where the minibar would clearly be if this was a hotel room. He's right, of course - it's whatever passes for a minibar when everything is on the house.

He is most definitely not after any more alcohol. A soda and lime, however... now that sounds like a good plan. Maybe it will even help deal with this weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

"Tell me that step one of whatever I wouldn't want to know about isn't over there?" He lifts his head just to peer.

"No," Neal says, though it's hard to tell if he means that a) it isn't, or b) he won't tell. Either way, he turns with the glass in hand, gesturing with it. "Drink? Completely alcohol-free, I promise. It'll probably help." 

"I think I want more alcohol. But I also think I don't need it. Maybe a compromise is just a little?"

"No more drinking for you," Neal replies. "It's a wonder I didn't have to carry you up here. Maybe next time you should avoid starting with the hard stuff?" 

"I blame you. And the hard stuff - it was needed. Get me something easy going, then. And a metal something to put in the middle of the bed."

"You don't need to build a wall, Peter. I promise I won't snuggle." Neal grins and then tries to look angelic, a little too rapidly. Then he turns back to the cabinet and fixes Peter a very much alcohol-free drink of his own, before pacing back to the bed to hand it to him. 

He waits til he' s sitting propped up on the pillows and done the same for Neal's side of the bed before he accepts the drink. "To forgetting what happened in Bangkok."

"Nothing happened in Bangkok," Neal says, utterly deadpan. Suddenly wishing Peter wasn't so damn close to the mark. Again.

He takes a long drink. Maybe he _should_ have put vodka in it... 

"And nothing is going to happen," Peter stresses, and takes a very, very long drink.

"There you have it," Neal agrees, brightly. "Nothing to worry about."

"So you can get me a nice iron girder and some ear-plugs so I don't have to listen to whatever noises you think keep people from asking questions." He lies back down and rests the drink on his chest, rising and falling with each slow, slightly wobbly breath.

"Fine. No fake sex noises. That will just leave them with a wholly different set of mental images..." Not helping, Neal. He takes another mouthful of his drink, sets the glass on the bedside table, and lies down again. 

"If I gag you overnight then the marks around your mouth might..." Peter starts, drily, until he realises yet again that he shouldn't try to call Neal's bluff. "Er. Or we can pretend my anti travel-sickness medication combined with alcohol..." and he slaps a hand over his eyes.

"This is _not_ going in _any_ report."

Neal laughs, genuinely enough, although it covers a multitude of other reactions. "See? Now you're getting it. Sometimes it pays to... omit certain truths. From certain parties."

He puts a hand over his eyes, blocking out the light. The longer he goes without drinking, the more he realises how much he's had. "We really should go to sleep." 

"Slippery slope to a four year jail term and divorce," Peter grumbles, then downs the rest of his drink. "Yes that is maybe the best idea you had since... actually I don't know when. Feel free to use the bathroom first."

"And I have a lot of good ideas," Neal points out. He gets up without waiting for a response, heading over to what turns out to be a very luxuriant bathroom in search of a large quantity of cold water.

He's gone for quite a while. 

Peter thinks this is the ideal time to rapidly get changed into his nightwear. His very sensible nightwear. He bought several sets for this trip, knowing Hughes wanted them in twin rooms. It's all scratchy, stiff, new, and hard to get into. Very. He has to fumble with the drawstring on the bottom half a lot, and when he's finally in it he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bureau. His hair a mess, his eyes red and worried... thank god he is not the type to even consider an affair, he thinks to himself. He runs his hands through his messy mop, and waits for Neal to be done so he can brush his teeth, half-drown himself in the sink and then hit his head into a pillow until he passes out.

How Neal still manages to look like an international playboy at a time like this - exhausted, drunk and still a little concerned about the potential for being shot and dumped in the sea - is anyone's guess, but it probably has more than a little to do with him not wanting to give anything away. _Anything_ , at this point. He comes pacing back into the bedroom wearing a bathrobe, hair damp but towelled, and sits on the end of the bed, glancing over at Peter.

"All yours," he says, gesturing in the direction of the bathroom. Resisting the urge to lie down straight away. 

Peter is deliberately not looking at anything or anyone when he bolts in. And then bolts the door. When he's inside he grips the basin for a long time, just... swaying and feeling increasingly sick. He doesn't feel suave. He feels... terrified. But he has to take control of himself. Of the situation. Of Neal. He can't let his personal phobias (and he's not homophobic, not at all, never had an issue with it ever, so why is he now so worried?) risk their lives or the job. So he allows himself one brief moment of unbridled panic that makes his knees buckle.

Then he gets the toothbrush, and puts himself in the rhythm of the movements. Feeling the tension seep out with each spit of minty-tinged bourbon. Then the water. Then he adjusts his stupid, awkward shirt and combs his hair flat.

He doesn't look as polished as Neal when he leaves the room, but he looks... resolute. "One condition," he says, in the doorway. "No pet names." And then (looking as brave as a man can) he climbs into his side of the bed.

By this point, Neal has changed from bathrobe to pyjamas, switched off the light, and curled up on his side of the bed. He's still awake, though, and he rolls onto his back, giving Peter a sensible-looking nod in response.

"Anything you say, Agent Burke," he says, in what he really does mean to be an equally sensible, reasoned tone. Except then he realises what it actually sounds like, and immediately rolls back onto his side, deciding it might be best to stop before he gets himself kicked out of bed. 

Peter pauses. Trying to read Neal's tone. Has he gone too far? Is he being a dick, when Neal - for all he's flirting - is just as uncomfortable as himself, potentially? He rolls over to face Neal's back, touches at his shoulder through the covers.

"Hey. 'Peter' has always been fine. Even when you were writing me cards. Some stupid cover isn't gonna change that, okay?" He shakes him just a little, in an awkward, manly way. "I just don't want to play a camp... gay man. I don't think that's what I'd be like if I... was. Play what you know, huh?"

Then he lets go, and rolls away too so as not to make Neal feel too uncomfortable.

Which rather takes Neal by surprise, and after a second he rolls onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling. "I know," he says, voice dropping into that suddenly-honest tone he so rarely uses - the one that, in fact, Peter has heard perhaps more than anyone else. "And I promise... I'm not playing some long game. Not this time. I am just trying to get us out of this alive." 

"Alright," Peter says. The same alcohol-candour, easier in the dark. "If I... didn't really trust you, I wouldn't be here right now. I mean... for the long part. Doesn't mean I don't think you're occasionally less well-behaved than you should be. I... will try to stop freaking out about it as much. I just... I've never done this before," he admits. "And... I suck at flirting. Ask El. So you're just gonna be stuck with that. No amount of... wanting to stay alive is gonna turn me into a Neal Caffrey."

"Probably for the best," Neal says. "I don't know if they could handle two..." He grins, mostly to himself. "Seriously, though... it will work. In the long and short run. And I will apologise profusely to Elizabeth when we get home."

He suspects she'll be amused, at least in part. Which does help allay his concerns somewhat. 

"She's the best wife anyone could want. As long as I don't actually cheat on her and mean it... enough apologies and she'll understand. And she likes you anyway. It's probably like if I had to flirt with Diana..." He laughs. "She'd break me in half. I'm surprised you walked out of that one in one piece."

"So was I," Neal admits, with a little laugh of his own. "But we found... things to bond over. Things that prevented her from feeling the need to cold-cock me with her sidearm. Or anyone else, for that matter." 

"Hats, or a shared taste in women?" Peter asks. Then he shakes his head. Reaches over and ruffles Neal's hair. "It's gonna be okay. Now get some rest so you can carry me in the morning. I'm going to play 'has huge hangover' and you're going to do all the talking."

Neal just grins at him, neither confirming nor denying the speculation. "I'm not carrying you," he says. "But, believe me, talking I can do."

And he moves to curl up again, sleep sounding like a very wonderful idea. 

"I know. But in the morning..." Peter pulls the sheets tight. "Not... now..."

It should take longer, but the talk has made him settle down a bit, and the gentle rocking soon has him drift into sleep.

***

When Neal first starts waking up in the morning, it's in a state of some confusion. He's curled up in a nice, warm bed, though his head hurts somewhat, and he has vague memories of champagne. Oh. Quite a lot of champagne. Which is usually a good sign. At this point, he starts to become aware that he's not alone... in fact, there's a warm body pressed up behind him, arm draped over his waist.

Which is usually a very good sign! Eyes still closed, he tries to remember what he was doing last night. Where he was and who he might have...

...oh. Oh. _Oh_.

Which is the point at which he realises he's on a _boat_ and it's _that_ boat, and the champagne was because of the _undercover mission_ and the warm body currently pressed up behind him is...

...Peter.

Neal stops breathing, blinking his eyes open with sudden urgency, and starts trying to slip out of bed with as little movement is possible, in the hope that the other man is still asleep, and thereby won't notice that they appear to have been snuggling somewhat.

Somewhat. A lot.

It's just a good job he's very flexible. And practiced at escaping from things. The moment he's out, he bolts for the bathroom, so that he'll never have to know if Peter was conscious or not.

Cold shower time. Again. 

Peter is vaguely aware that the warm, snuggly thing is leaving. He doesn't like warm, snuggly things leaving. So - mostly asleep - he grumbles and tries vaguely to prevent it leaving, but in the end his arm falls flat into the warm dip in the mattress. When it's gone, he grabs at one of the pillows instead and pulls this in to hug. It's not the same but it's something to hold as the world creeps in.

Warm: check. Bed: check. Mild hangover: check. Sunlight creeping in: check. Wife: .... no. Dog begging for breakfast: .... no. Minor swaying which is more than a mild hangover would cover: check. Confused, he opens his eyes. And looks at a very slightly messy, very more than slightly expensive... suite. On... a boat.

He sits upright in a jolt, stares around for Neal, and then (paranoid) peeks under the covers. Not even sure what he's looking for entirely. "NEAL?"

There is no answer from the bathroom but after a moment the door opens and Neal - bathrobed again - peers out in a totally innocent, I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about sort of way. Except that he isn't, and he does. And this time it shows somewhat.

"...Yes?" he says, trying so hard to keep his voice level. 

"What the hell?" is all Peter asks, pulling the covers up around his shoulders. "What did you put in my drink last night?" he asks, accusingly. "And why am I not back in Florida after waking to find it was all some weird dream?"

"I didn't put anything in your drink last night. In any of your drinks. Though _you_ put a very significant quantity of bourbon in most of them, which should explain everything." All of which Neal says a little too fast. "And I'm afraid it wasn't all a weird dream. Or anything close." No matter how much he keeps hoping otherwise.   
[  
Peter falls back down with a thud. "Okay. I'm calling in sick." And he pulls the covers over his head.

And Neal decides to take this opportunity to duck back into the bathroom again... before Peter opts to start asking any more awkward questions that might require too much truth in the answers. 

Peter just waits until he thinks the coast is clear. Maybe next Tuesday? It's too hot under the covers for long and also he remembers snuggling and things so he throws them off in a huff. And waits for the bathroom. And stares at the ceiling lights and the - is that a mirror? 

He feels suddenly like he needs a very strong coffee and maybe some anti-hallucinogenic drugs.

It is, again, a little while before Neal emerges, looking more awake and feeling infinitely more human. He still seems slightly reserved, though, as he goes about finding something appropriate to wear. What exactly is the Shanghai-ed man wearing this season? And why is this a question he's having to ask himself? (Again).

He doesn't say anything just yet. Sometimes the silence speaks for itself. 

Peter isn't enjoying the silent treatment because it normally means he's done something wrong. And... he hasn't. Not that he remembers. If Neal is going to be funny about... well... normal, asleep-type male behaviour... maybe he should sleep in the bath? He wraps the sheets around himself and limps towards the shower, trying to keep everything covered.

Neal considers calling after him but decides against it, opting to wait until he comes back. Giving him time. Yes. That.

...Damn, but he needs coffee. Good coffee. It will probably go some way towards dealing with at least the majority of his problems right now.

Sometimes it's best to be positive.

Eventually Peter re-appears, looking very much like he's dressed defensively. His shirt is buttoned all the way to the top and he's fumbling with a tie. He doesn't care how hot it is, he wants to cover every last inch of his skin.   
"Don't look up," he grumbles as he comes in, avoiding Neal's eyes as much as he can.

"Too late," Neal tells him. Far, far too late.

By now, he's had a few moments to pause, do some serious thinking, and come to a decision. He's not entirely certain it's a decision Peter will like, but... in the long run, he thinks it's probably a better idea.

"We should talk." Bad way to start. Very bad. But... true. "I know I've made you uneasy with all... this... and for that I'm sorry."

He wasn't expecting an apology, so that catches him off-guard. Slightly suspicious, Peter narrows his eyes but takes a few steps closer. " 'Uneasy' is an understatement, but yes." By 'talk' he hopes Neal doesn't mean both of them.

"Look. I know you can do undercover. I've seen you do it plenty of times and you're good. And I know it's just the flirting part that's throwing you off-guard."

Normal people are not supposed to have these kinds of conversation with their FBI handlers. Though, to be fair, normal people are not supposed to have FBI handlers. Sometimes it's best to be a little unconventional.

"I thought if maybe we worked it out now, you wouldn't feel so awkward about it all, and then you'll be able to concentrate on the operation again."

He realises he's perhaps not being as clear as he should be, so he gets up and paces right up to Peter. Not quite making another move yet, but definitely considering it.

"You're... what? Breaking up with me?" Peter really doesn't understand, and he sounds all sorts of confused, denying and hopeful-disappointed all wrapped into one. "I don't understand. I don't know how I can do this without us ending up dead. Neal, if I knew how, I'd be doing your job..."

Neal really is trying to pull Peter together. He is. But the giving of sage advice is generally more of a Peter-thing, and Neal finds it doesn't work so well with their roles reversed.

Perhaps he should try doing this his own way, instead. The trouble is, sometimes Peter doesn't like it when he does.

But. He has to try.

"You are damn good at this, Peter Burke, and you know it. You just need to get over your fear of..-"

_Oh, just do it!_

Neal grabs hold of the front of Peter's shirt, tugs him in, and kisses him - firm but non-invasive - on the lips, before letting go and pulling back.

Peter's hands come up and flap, not sure whether to push, pull, or... what, really. Because it isn't acting here and now. It's Neal kissing him before the acting. Sort of a lesson. Or something. And it feels all weird and confusing. And his natural instinct is telling him to kiss back. It's what he does. When... when El kisses him. 

When Neal pulls back, Peter decides the only thing to do is what he wanted to do last night. Which is slap him. On the jaw. For all the kissing. He had to not do it in public but now it's in private and he can let vent to the anger and hurt and shock. He doesn't want to hurt him much, just... enough to register his displeasure. Then he grabs Neal's shirt and pulls him in close. 

"That's for not warning me somehow. And if you're going to kiss me in public like you keep doing, you should remember I'm a happily married man and I have all the experience keeping her happy entails. You might have a different girl every month - or every week - and get to impress them when you have them; but I have to keep my game fresh every night. And then I see her in the morning..."

Then he lets go and steps back. Brushes himself down and doesn't look at him. "Are we good now?" 

Neal looks a little hurt at the slap, but only a little – he's realised Peter probably needed to do it, and on one level he's glad the other man has got it out of his system. He steps back as well when Peter lets go of him, brushing himself down rather more than he needs to.

“I know that,” he says, “and I'm really – really – not trying anything underhand. I'm not. It's just a cover, Peter. All I wanted was to help you get the shock out of your system whilst we were still in private, so you won't be distracted when we aren't. And I am certainly not trying to belittle your marriage. On the contrary – I'm trying to get you back to your wife in one piece.”

He pauses. Realises he sounded perhaps more hurt than he meant to. Takes a deep breath. “Yes, we're good.” Means it.

“Okay. Good.” Maybe he said too much. Maybe not. He feels a bit better, so he punches Neal in a comradely fashion. “Sorry I hit you. I don't normally... uh. Hit people.” He really doesn't. He looks a bit embarrassed. Okay, a lot. “I won't do it again.”

Then there's a slightly more normal Peter-smile. Not like a Neal-beam, but the more mundane, calm Burke one. “Should we go on up?”

“Yes,” Neal agrees. “Hopefully our esteemed host's extravagance extends to his choice of coffee.”

And he gestures to the door before moving, hoping he can remember the way from their suite back up to the main entertainment area of the ship. He did try to memorise it last night, but he was... more than a little distracted at the time.

“If it doesn't, I'll kill him myself,” Peter offers. He has memorised the way (old habits die hard) and when he sees Neal falter slightly, he puts a hand on his elbow to gently steer him the last part of the way. 

When they get there, they find Gregory and James sitting around a lavish breakfast table. Gregory for once doesn't have a woman on his arm. 

“Good morning love-birds!” he calls out to them. “Come, I'm sure you're... ravenous.” He makes the word sound downright filthy.

Peter wraps an arm around Neal's waist – partly protective, partly possessive. He doesn't like the way they're looking at them so he wants to make it clear they should stop. Now. “I wouldn't say no. Sea-travel makes me queasy at best so I have to eat as and when I can...”

Neal has his game-face on, and as such is strenuously ignoring anything that might make him worried for his life again, in favour of looking like a man who has had a wonderful night and now doesn't have a care in the world, save for perhaps a little light business over cappuccinos. Nevertheless... that arm around his waist still makes him feel better.

A lot better.

“Sounds like an excellent idea to me,” he says.

“Coffee? Help yourself to anything on the table,” he says, already pouring from the cafetiere. “And if you fancy something warm I can call over one of the girls.”

“Warm sounds good,” Peter says, taking the coffee as it's offered. “And that room... I have to say, you pulled out all the stops.”

He drags a chair out for Neal, lets go of him to let him sit down.

Neal settles into his own chair at once, also going for the coffee as soon as he can. “I'll second that,” he says, with a grin. “And I must confess... I did like the mirror.”

He helps himself to a couple of the pastries. Food is also a good idea at this point.

There's the faintest hint of a blush high on Peter's cheeks and the tips of his ears, but that could be for any number of reasons. He decides discretion is the better part and stuffs in a croissant before he has to comment.

Gregory claps his hands together in delight. “See, James, I told you they would appreciate it. James is always telling me to get rid of it.”

“It's so nineties,” James answers, without a trace of irony.

Not entirely sure what to make of this, and certain it would be best not to push the image any further, Neal sets down his coffee cup and looks at Gregory with his most endearing expression. “Now, Gregory, surely you can tell us where we're headed now? The suspense is killing me!”

“My boss has a vineyard of his own,” Gregory says, swirling his espresso around. “Not far from here. Good tax breaks.”

“Oh, where? I thought we knew all the local growers... we're not going to California unless you somehow fly this as well as sail it...” Peter wonders aloud.

“Ah, we're going to Santamand,” Gregory says. “You'll like it.”

Oh. Oh dear. Neal knows of the island of Santamand, though he's never been. It isn't exactly the best news in the world, given that it's one of the more remote Caribbean islands and will therefore be harder to make a quick getaway from when the need arises.

No. If. If the need arises.

“Oh yes,” he says, “I've heard of it. I'm told it's very beautiful.”

And remote. And ruled by a man who is effectively a military dictator. And not the sort of place you find a helpful US consulate to make all your troubles go away.

“How does... well. Not to be too blunt but how is the climate?” Peter asks, coming to much the same conclusions as Neal. No extradition, no regular visitors, no federal links... Amnesty International or swimming aids probably their best hope. 

“Good enough but not what it could be,” Gregory replies.

“I take it you have a fairly sizeable operation there?” Neal asks, after another sip of coffee. “And what's the travel time... I guess five or six days at least?”

All not good. Useful information, yes, but not good.

“A week going, two weeks there, a week back. Generally. And yes... it's large enough that we can supply twenty brokers. Some buying and selling more than you.”

Peter whistles through his teeth. “That's some deal. No wonder you are looking to predict the market. I guess your major limit is what the market can swallow up? Because land out there will be very reasonable. Much more reasonable than, say, Chile...”

One of the girls comes up and takes their orders, briefly interrupting the conversation.

"Though you must be at least a little hindered by the climate," Neal reasons. "I imagine a certain amount of the operation involves hydroponics?"

And if it does, that means they've got even more money behind them. Which isn't really going to be a surprise anymore, but still. 

"We have to give nature a helping hand sometimes, which... not everyone agrees with. Like those crazy organic-only grass-eating nutjobs," he agrees.

Peter pours another coffee, then offers some to Neal. "When I am sure blindfolded they wouldn't be able to tell the difference... or price it?"

"I very much doubt it," Neal agrees, letting Peter refill his coffee with a nod of thanks, before returning his attention to Gregory. "The more I hear about this operation of yours, the more I'm looking forward to seeing it." 

"Have you ever seen a full operation before, Neal? It really is something. An incredible amount of work just for one bottle... a lot of it automated now, of course. But you really can't give everything to a computer."

"I've been to a few vineyards in my time," Neal says, with a suddenly wistful look that he - perhaps wisely - doesn't elaborate on. "Though from the sound of it, yours will be the largest. And certainly the only one sited on a Caribbean island." 

"Perhaps the only one ever..." Gregory muses. Then he claps his hands together. "So we have a few days of one another's company - during the day at least," he says, winking at Peter. "Do you lovely gentlemen have any requests?"

"Handcuffs?" Peter asks, half-jokingly.

This takes Neal somewhat by surprise, though he manages to turn any outward expression of said surprise into a broad, slightly devious grin. "You and your ideas..." he says, fondly, that flirtatious look back in his eyes. "Though I'm sure you could always improvise..."

...and now he's getting wistful again. Must be the mild hangover. More coffee is definitely required. Yes. 

Now the warm meals arrive and are laid out before each of them.

"Didn't you check all the drawers? Fairly sure that's standard issue. Along with copious... massage oil. And normally French maid's outfits... but I think that would only fit one of you," Gregory says, stabbing a sausage with a fork and waggling it at each of them, then biting it. Still looking at Neal.

"If you do cabaret, you might even persuade him to get up on stage. He's such a wonderful performer... in any outfit," Peter promises. "But the French maid one is not for everyone to see."

Neal is now just thanking his lucky stars that he didn't go through the room more thoroughly last night, because he really doubts it would have helped. It isn't exactly helping now.

Focus. The trouble is, focusing just leads to him digging even deeper into this vast hole.

"Sometimes I even do requests," he points out, unblinking. "For... the right audience."

And then, because this whole conversation is entirely Peter's fault, Neal leans in and nuzzles against the side of his neck. Firmly. Because he can. 

Peter's hand goes up and grabs the back of Neal's neck, and doesn't let go. His voice a firm, sure half-growl. "But he runs those by me first, of course."

Keeping him there, he turns to stare him in the eyes. "Because he earns enough not to be a private dancer. Even if he likes performing a bit too much..."

"Maybe you two will agree on something. I'll even get James to sing," Gregory offers.

The oft-silent James somehow manages to glower without actually changing his facial expression. "I don't do singing," he points out, levelly. "We remember what happened last time, yes?"

Neal, meanwhile, looks far too happy about being grabbed like that. Far too happy. "Perhaps. But you _love_ it when I do."

"I remember. That's why you should do it again. Especially if our guests are going to entertain us, it would be rude not to," Gregory tells him. Waving another sausage. He talks with his hands a lot.

"Later. Room," Peter says, and holds Neal's eye long enough for it to be a warning, then lets go. Turns back to his own meat, egg and tomato collection. 

James shrugs. "Your funeral," he says, and goes back to his breakfast.

Neal takes the hint and turns back to his own breakfast as well, though this does unfortunately mean he also has to go back to looking at Gregory. Who needs to stop gesticulating so much with sausages. Really.

"I would love you to sing at that, too," Gregory laughs. "That would just be the perfect end to the day. And everyone would remember me fondly..."

"Don't you have an artistic outlet?" Peter decides to ask him.

"Ah, but if I'm at your funeral, that would imply I hadn't done my job very well," James points out. "And we wouldn't want that."

He spears a sausage and starts slicing it up with unnecessary levels of precision - and certainly enough to stop Neal from saying whatever it is that he was about to say.

"Unless it's auto-erotic asphyxiation. Or old age." Thankfully Gregory is out of sausages and bacon just flops when you wave it. Then he looks over at Peter. "I find myself being artistic enough in my job. In my spare time I like to... relax."

Carefully finishing off the last of his breakfast, Peter daubs his napkin to his mouth. Then smiles. "I know how you feel. And being the foil for the criminally gifted means most nights I just want to catch a game. Sometimes with a beer..."

"...'Criminally gifted'," Neal repeats, with a bright smile. "Peter, you flatter me. I just happen to have... certain useful skillsets. For the sale of fine wines," he adds, with the kind of look that says, you _wish_ you knew what I got up to in my spare time. Mostly in an attempt to wind up Gregory a little, because he can. 

Peter leans over and ruffles Neal's hair as thoroughly as he can. Part affectionate, part to wind him up by ruining his perfect coiffe. "You love being flattered. Don't play coy. If I don't stroke your ego you get antsy." Then he picks up his coffee and leans back. "So do you make this trip often or do you spend most of your time on the mainland? Because I have to say, being 'stuck' on a Caribbean island surrounded by wine sounds such an... awful business proposition..."

Neal arches an eyebrow at the ego-stroking remark, now trying to wind Peter up (also because he can), patting him on the arm. "Well, you do love flattering me," he says. "I know you'd miss me if I wasn't here." 

"I come a few times a year. Most of my business is in promoting Veritas' interests, sourcing new clients, procuring recycling schemes... did you know that we're the largest glass recycling company on the Eastern seaboard? We also have a few new ideas for revenue streams but those are," he taps the side of his nose conspiratorially.

"Sounds promising," Neal says, with an approving nod. "Always good to see the industry in growth... especially when one stands to profit from it."

New revenue streams? Like what, abduction cruises? 

"Perhaps you'd appreciate some investment in those other streams... once our working relationship was well-established. No point in taking on too much at once," Peter suggests.

"Yes, we might consider other contracts. Especially once your portfolio expands from selling our wines," Gregory agrees. "Enough business. You saw the bar last night, have you been around the rest of the ship yet?"

"Not yet," Neal answers. "Once we went to our _very_ lovely room we were... preoccupied. We haven't explored elsewhere yet."

He is quite eager to do so, though. If they're going to be aboard for a week, he might as well enjoy himself as much as possible. Besides... it's only polite. 

"I wish you'd stop using the 's' word," Peter just grumbles slightly.

Gregory slaps him on the arm. "Okay, how about I call it 'the hotel'? Well, there's a fitness suite, pool, sauna, lovely restaurant, massage parlour, barber, and a very, very large screen for those sports of yours... there's also a suite for working if you like but - alas! - no internet access. Is there anything in particular you gentlemen would like to ask about?"

"Sounds perfect. Just one question, actually... do you have any other guests on board this time? Or is it just us?"

They haven't seen anyone else, but that doesn't rule it out. And he wants to be certain. You never know who you might run into. 

"Oh it's just you. And the staff. We'd have introduced you last night if we had anyone else onboard. And as I say... this is a rare honour. You must be promising to have a summons." He grins.

"Well it certainly is a vacation all on its own," Peter agrees.

Neal grins too, looking quietly pleased with himself. "Always nice to have impressed the boss," he points out. "But then, I do pride myself on standing out."

Coffee finished at last (and oh, but he feels so much better after it) he settles back, leaning on Peter just a little. Seemingly very content. 

"I'll leave you two to investigate. If it's locked, it's out of bounds. Otherwise the s... hotel is yours for the exploring." Gregory daubs at his lips with a napkin. "And if you need anything, just ask one of the girls. Or James." He pushes his chair back to stand.

"Once breakfast is settled we'll do just that," Peter says, patting Neal's knee in a 'stay here' sort of a way.

Neal takes the hint. "Sounds like a wonderful idea to me," he agrees, not rising yet.

James, meanwhile, stands along with his boss, giving the other two a nod. "I'll be around," he says, in a helpful - yet also slightly ominous - way. "If you have any requests, don't hesitate to ask." He glances at Gregory. "So long as they aren't musical numbers." 

"Wait til you hear his 'Eye of the Tiger' when he's had too many Singapore Slings," Gregory promises with a wink. Then he nods at them and walks off.

Peter closes his eyes, letting the sunlight wash over his face. Waiting for the footsteps to die down.

Neal doesn't speak until the other two have disappeared from sight. "...That went well," he ventures, not entirely sure Peter is going to agree. 

"If by 'went well' you mean 'we didn't get shot but we got vital information which we won't be able to send back because we're had our cells phones stolen and are living on an enforced Club Med holiday with a wine-fiend and his hired muscle.... sure Neal." Peter does not open his eyes. "Think we could swim back if we bailed now?"

"I doubt it. I suppose we could try making off with one of the liferafts under the cover of darkness... but therein lies a whole new set of experiences we likely don't want. Experiences that involve drifting at sea in the heat as opposed to availing ourselves of the open bar and leisure facilities whilst trying not to get murdered."

Neal reviews this statement after he's said it, not wholly sure it's helpful. Even if it is technically true. 

"So we can kill ourselves or let them do it for us... under normal circumstances this might even be enjoyable. But this is a bit too... 'fell off the boat and we couldn't save them' for my liking." He opens his eyes and looks at Neal. Little sparkles of after-glow dancing around wherever he looks directly. "What about these new 'revenue streams' huh?"

"That sounded a little ominous to me. I know it's all business-speak, but something about it makes me wonder. And then worry. It could be innocuous, but then again..."

Neal trails off, thinking. On the one hand, maybe Gregory is just using flowery language about something that will turn out to be less than exciting, in an attempt to impress them. But on the other hand... who knows what else these people might be up to. They seem capable of far too much for Neal's liking. 

"Think we should investigate?" he proposes. "We were just given free reign."

"As much as we can, without getting ourselves killed," Neal agrees. "And if nothing else, at least we'll know what else there is to do aboard this s-... hotel." 

"You can call it a ship in front of me," Peter laughs. "Just not.... other me." Then he gets up and holds out his hand.

Neal grins and takes his hand, rising smoothly to his feet. "I'll bear that in mind," he says. "Shall we?"


End file.
